Memoirs of Saelon Erestorion
by Rinon u-Cuthalion
Summary: Being the true and accurate record of the deeds and adventures of Saelon Erestorion of Rivendell, only son to Lord Elrond's most trusted adviser. Mild violence. Mostly book universe, with adjustments for maximum mayhem. Absolutely no slash.
1. Prologue: The River

Prologue

The River

No one takes me seriously. Despite the fact that I have fought a dragon, helped to save a lady in distress, and served in the Goblin Wars, most of the other elves regard me as a non-factor, at best. Since, as the wise sages say, it is better to show than to tell, I shall relate a story which may illustrate my point.

About twelve years ago the Bruinen River was in flood. Imladris remained largely unaffected, so Lord Elrond sent out parties to help any survivors. No one asked me to come, naturally, but I felt that I should be unable to rest so long as there were any unfortunate creatures who were in danger. I set off on my own, not being quite sure what Father would think.

I had not gone more than eight leagues when I came across a dwarf who indeed greatly needed assistance. Although the entrance to his underground dwelling was normally well above the river, the rising flood waters had advanced to within about five feet of his front door. When I arrived he was attempting to build a levee to stave off the encroaching river. I hailed him cheerfully. "Greetings, good dwarf! Are you experiencing any difficulties?"

"What does it look like?" he answered. I had heard that dwarves were usually surly, and this one was no exception. "My winter supply of food is in my house, and if the river gets in, it will all be ruined, and I'll starve to death. Other than that, I'm all right."

"There is no need for any harsh words, dwarf. My name is Saelon, and I shall give you all the succor that is within my power!"

"Here's your shovel," he said. I must say that up until this point I had thought that my father was a stickler for a powerful work ethic, but this fellow gave me ample reason to thank the Powers that I was not born a dwarf. He drove me like a horse. The only thing that kept me going was the assurance that I was doing a Good Deed, which would be properly requited either in this life or a later one.

The water rose too fast for us, overrunning our levee before it was half completed. We stood on the dwarf's front doorstep with a rapidly deepening trickle of water flowing past our feet into the house. I hoped that I would still receive credit for a Good Deed, even though the end result had been disappointing. The dwarf turned to me in despair. "You're an elf! Can't you magic that river or something?"

"No," I said. He seemed skeptical, so I ventured to explain. "First of all, I am not powerful enough to divert the river. Second, my father has expressly forbidden me to use magic unless it is the only way to save my life. Even in dangerous situations it is always good to obey the commands of one's parents." Now, Father might not have been happy if he had known where I was and what I was doing, but he hadn't forbidden me to go, and he _had _frequently instructed me that service to others was a moral duty.

The water was now up past my ankles, and nearly to his knees. Ominous gurgling sounds were coming from the inside of the house. "Well, your precious life might be in danger, because we're stranded and the river is still rising. Haven't you learned _anything_ in your eons of privileged existence that would get us out of here?" He wanted to know what I thought; he even granted me a small measure of respect. It was to be short-lived.

"Actually, although my age matters not, I am twenty-two years old."

"Durin's beard!" he groaned as the hole collapsed, partially burying us in mud. "What did I do to deserve this? I am in dire peril, and who comes to save me? A elfling escaped from his nursery!"

It is unpleasant to spend two hours buried waist-deep in mud while a dwarf in a similar situation not five feet away calls down upon one's head every imprecation and curse in the tongues of Men, dwarves, and goblins. It is even more unpleasant to be rescued by one's mother.

As I said, no one takes me seriously.


	2. Chapter One: The Rescue

Chapter One

The Rescue

The next two years passed almost entirely without incident, and by the time I arrived at the age of twenty-four I was, on the whole, full of confidence. Thus it happened that shortly after the beginning of _ethuil_, I was sent to work with an older cousin on his farm, about a day's ride distant. My mother was worried about this.

"Saelon is inexperienced," she said. "He's never been away from home before. Shouldn't we start with something simpler? How about we have him stay for a day or two with one of his friends on the other side of Imladris?"

Father hastened to reassure her. "It's not like we're sending him to Mirkwood. Faelon doesn't live very far away, and there isn't much danger of Saelon getting hurt when he's less than ten leagues from here." Father has always held a higher opinion of my abilities than Mother has, although his confidence in me is not unlimited.

"I know he's only going to be a short distance away. But don't forget that he has managed to get into serious difficulty within sight of our house. Remember the horse incident?"

"Yes, I remember. How could I forget it? But my nephew has shown himself to be adequately responsible. There is no need to worry, Saelon will be quite all right." Under his outward appearance of confidence, however, he seemed to worry that I might actually be harmed in some way. He decided to ride with me until I was about halfway there.

When we reached the crossroads southwest of Imladris, Father and I reined in our horses. The time had come for us to part. Father gazed around at the beautiful spring morning, as if searching for inspiration. I knew better than to interrupt him. Finally he turned to me and spoke. "Son, I have confidence in you; you are nearly grown now, and have always been faithful to us. However, you are going to spend the next several months outside of our supervision, let alone our control. I want you to promise me that you will conduct yourself as you would if we were watching you." He searched my eyes intently.

"I promise to do so," I said earnestly. "I am grateful that you have given me this opportunity, Father, and I will do my best not to disappoint you."

Father was somewhat relieved by this. "In that case, son, I have something for you." He opened a bag that he had on his horse, and removed a fine sword, which he gave to me. "The time has come for you to carry a weapon of your own. Although this is not a family heirloom, it is a sword of which no Eldar need be ashamed." We clasped hands for a moment, then Father started back up the road to Imladris. Before he had gone far, he stopped and called back over his shoulder, "Your mother will expect to receive a letter from you at the earliest opportunity. You would do well to inform her that you are respectful of your elders, you miss her terribly, and you are cleaning your teeth every night." He grinned slightly. "And if I were you I wouldn't tell her about the sword. She might worry."

Entering into the spirit of mirth, I asked him, "Worry about what? Worry that your gift meant that I would be danger, or worry that I might dismember someone with it, like myself?"

Father laughed, which is not something he does very often. "_Cuio vae, ion velui. No i Melain berio gen._" We both turned and rode towards our separate destinations. As I traveled, I studied my new sword. It was a useful blade, curved slightly with a fairly blunt point; its one-handed grip was ornamented with thin gold threads woven into intricate patterns. I was unspeakably proud of it. In some ways it symbolized my coming of age, although I knew many would still treat me as a child. But I was glad to know that my father trusted me. Only one nagging question bothered me. If he did trust me, than why had he extracted my promise of good behavior? In retrospect, I concluded that he was probably more worried about the development of good character than about any physically dangerous situations that I might meet. I resolved that I would not be found wanting in any respect.

In any case, events during the first month seemed to allay his fears on both these counts, and I am proud to say that my cousin answered all of Mother's numerous letters by assuring her that I was healthy, obedient, and diligent. Near the end of my stay, he called me into the small room which he used as an office. Arriving to find him counting empty bushel baskets, I waited until he jotted down the number onto a piece of paper. He seized my arrival as an excellent excuse to take a rest from bookkeeping. "Saelon, my two sisters are going on an extended riding trip tomorrow. As you know, I shall be excessively busy supervising the pruning of the pear orchard (cursed trees!), and I cannot leave this farm for any reason short of an orc invasion. I tried to persuade my sisters to wait until a more convenient time, but you can probably guess how that went. Although the nearby countryside is quite safe, it would be best if, for the sake of appearances, they had an escort. Would you like to do that? You could borrow my horse."

"Yes," I replied. "I am glad to be of service." I must confess that I was also glad to escape the pear pruning, which was not one of my favorite tasks. And although the manner of his request had made it clear that he chose me because his sisters wouldn't require any serious protection on their ride, I was conscious of the honor involved in such an assignment.

"Good." He kept up conversation for a few more minutes in a futile attempt to avoid his account books.

The next morning I got up early and strapped on my bow and my new sword, which as of yet I had not named. After a light breakfast, I was ready to ride. Faelon's horse, Rochthrosg, was a thoroughly noble animal. The weather was chilly, but the sun was up and I was in the best of spirits. How could I be anything but cheerful? I was young, I was free (not that I had resented my parents' authority, but I was ready to be off on my own), and I was riding a fine horse to serve as the escort of two ladies.

During the journey out, I had to tolerate a certain degree of teasing from my companions on account of my age, which I felt was hardly justified. Lothanor was the elder, and she was not yet three hundred herself! I pointed out that elves of her age mocked those who were younger only because it diverted attention from their own immaturity. That ended the condescension, for the most part.

The land we rode across was an entirely deserted stretch of countryside, which seemed to have been made for the purpose of trying out high-spirited horses. Apart from a few clumps of elm trees that huddled around several boggy ponds, the terrain was composed of rolling hills covered with a patchy layer of withered grass. We enjoyed ourselves immensely, galloping our steeds down steep hillsides and racing each other through narrow valleys. The ladies were somewhat put out when I firmly insisted that they stop hiding behind grassy knolls and dashing their horses out suddenly in an attempt to surprise me. "While this activity may be quite diverting," I explained, "we are in strange territory, and so I must reluctantly in my role as your escort bid you to remain within my sight."

"You're no fun!" said Laeriel, the younger sister, with a certain degree of comic petulance. "You're acting like someone a thousand times your age!"

"Thank you," I replied.

A horn suddenly rang out close at hand. We had seen no one yet, but in this warren of ridges and sudden changes in elevation, two traveling parties could be quite near each other without having the slightest idea of the other's existence. Lothanor straightened like a hound that has scented its prey. "Oh! A hunting party! Let's go look!"

I turned in the general direction of the sound. "I am sorry, but until I have discovered the cause of the noise, you must remain- Hey, stop! Where are-" The girls had shot past me, dashing headlong towards the next valley without the slightest thought for safety or decorum. "Fly, Rochthrosg! We must stop them!"

Although he was beginning to tire from the day's exertions, he put forth his best effort. My cousins were scarcely forty yards ahead when they began to climb the ridge, and the gap was closing. As the horn sounded again, Rochthrosg leapt forward as though the call was a spur. "_Daro_!" I shouted. The horse was briefly under the impression that I wanted _him_ to stop, but that was sorted out. In an attempt to persuade the girls to desist, I resorted to my most persuasive argument. "When your brother hears about this, he will be very distressed!" Very distressed with me, that is.

About this time it dawned on me that pruning pear trees was really not the worst way to spend one's time, especially compared with certain more arduous pursuits, such as riding a fine horse to serve as the escort of two ladies. One of the girls turned, and after observing me shouted something to the other. To this day I believe what she said was, "Faster! He's gaining on us!" I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but by then there was no doubt. They were attempting to escape from the escort that their brother had so carefully sent with them as a mark of his affectionate concern for their well-being.

When they tore over the top of the ridge, I was less than ten yards behind. Suddenly there was a great horrible shout, and the girls stopped and let out the loudest screams I have ever heard. As I came up to them I saw instantly what was the matter. In the narrow valley below, a swarm of goblins was closing about a small party of Eldar: a lady with her guards, not more than half a dozen together. I did not lose a moment. "Make all possible haste back to the farm!" I shouted at my panic-stricken cousins. "They cannot catch you while you are mounted. Go!" I had thought that their trip _up_ the hill was speedy, but it was nothing compared to their trip _down_. With them out of the way, I turned back to the battle. I already had my bow strung and an arrow nocked on the string, and I began firing on the orcs.

It was not enough, however. The goblins were pressing tightly around the beleaguered elves, and some of my arrows came shockingly close to hitting the lady. Desperate times called for desperate measures, I thought, and so slinging my bow across my back, I drew the Nameless Sword and shouted, "Courage! Aid has come!" Spurring my horse down the hill, I rode to their defense. My mind was working at a frenzied pace, and suddenly it occurred to me that my actions might be considered to be in violation of the promise I gave Father. I dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. Although they had made it clear that I was not to participate in armed conflict until I was much older, my parents, if they were here, would definitely not have wanted me to ride away and leave the travelers to be massacred.

My charge created a small commotion in the goblin ranks. A very small commotion, actually. Their leader, a tall and filthy orc with offensively large ears, glanced at me and picked two members of his horde. "Shargon, Grakkil! Deal with 'im". Those two came to meet my onslaught, while the rest of the creatures fiercely assailed the elves, wounding one guard. The one called Shargon brandished a hooked spear at Rochthrosg, who reared and beat the air with his hooves, striking Shargon's skull with a loud crunch and knocking him down. I was pulled from my seat by an iron grip, striking the ground heavily; it seemed that Grakkil had tackled me while my attention was drawn to his partner. No, actually, I realized, he had thrown a noose over my head. My arms were pinioned to my sides just above the elbows.

"Foul creature!" I shouted. I must at this point mention that before I left Imladris I had taken the opportunity of copying down several useful spells from one of my father's books. I didn't know if I was strong enough to use them, but now seemed a good time to find out. Those of my readers who read the introduction to these memoirs may remember that my parents took a dim view of me using magic at my age. However, there was the phrase, "unless it is the only way to save my life." This seemed to qualify. I prepared myself for the effort. "Your devious tricks will not save you, scum! _Talaf, edro nu dellyn tin!_"

There was a cry of dismay and several colorful oaths. In my peripheral vision, I observed the lady and her guards plummet out of sight into a newly formed pit. "No!" I shouted. "Wait! Not them! That's not what I meant!" I began to see the truth in my father's saying, "What's done can't be undone." I also began to see the truth in my mother's saying, "But Saelon isn't safe on his own!" I had never felt worse. I wished that the earth had opened under me instead.

Grakkil, naturally, thought it was the funniest thing he had ever seen. Unhelpful beast. "Har har! If yew ever wants a job in the 'orde, there's one open for yew. You're real useful!"

That was his mistake. I had been ashamed before, but now I was angry as well. Still laughing, he swept his axe down at me. The blow seemed to take forever to descend; long enough, fortunately, for me to wriggle out of its path. The axe's rusty blade plunged into the ground and stuck. Grakkil swore a horrible oath, and, kicking my sword out of my restricted hand, drew his jagged-edged dagger. I was prepared for him, though. Drawing my hunting knife with my left arm, I clamped it between my shoes and kicked it up into Grakkil's torso as he bent over to cut my throat. He fell, spewing orc-blood all over me from his mortal wound. In his death-struggles he gashed my leg, but the injury was not serious. I had never killed anything before, so I was surprised and somewhat shocked to find myself exhilarated by the victory. Was that a bad sign?

There were more pressing issues at hand than self-analysis. I attempted to free myself from the noose, but the orcish knot seemed designed always to tighten and never to loosen. It was very frustrating having a battle going on right next to me without having an opportunity to help, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it, so I lay there muttering filthy words (I fear that I broke my promise to my father in that respect) and sawing away at the rope while my trousers became increasingly saturated with orc blood.

I would never have been able to forgive myself if any of the elves had died, seeing that their predicament was partly my fault, but they were able to beat off the attack without anything worse than a few moderate wounds. Just as I cut through the last strand of rope, the lady, wounded in several places and covered in dirt, climbed out of the hole and walked over to me. The first thing she saw was the state of my clothing. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "Are you injured?"

"Not badly," I replied sheepishly. "Most of the blood isn't mine."

"It is good that you have escaped that rope on your own, because I don't think I could have persuaded Túveren to let you out." She gestured toward a scowling guard. One of the arrows sticking out of his armor looked distinctly like one of mine. "You may accompany us to Imladris, if that is where you live. Also, I thank you for your assistance." Behind her ironclad composure, there was something almost like laughter. I didn't know whether I was relieved or offended. Probably relieved, since it didn't seen likely that she would report the unpleasant details of my . . . poorly thought out rescue attempt.

We were about halfway back to my cousin's farm when he came riding toward us with a hastily gathered party of armed Eldar. "By the Powers! I'm glad to see you," he said. "Your mother is on the verge of a nervous breakdown."

I almost fell off my horse in dismay and hastily inquired, "How does my mother know about this already?"

"Oh, right. You weren't home when she came to visit. She started worrying when she found out that you were out more or less by yourself. Then Lothanor and Laeriel came back screaming about orcs, bloody murder, and the return of Belegurth from the Outermost Darkness. The only thing they could agree on was that you had been hacked to pieces. We had to peel your mother off the ceiling. And so–light of Eärendil, what happened to your pants?"

"Orcs." I was tired, and in my inexperience I thought that my injury was rather worse than it really was. I had the feeling that I had made a fool of myself, and not for the first time, either. If a horribly overgrown pear tree had walked up to me, I would have clasped its branches and called it a friend. We returned to Faelon's farm.

The incident did not end quite as badly as I had feared. I made the mistake of going to see Mother without changing my clothing first, and she went out like a candle and didn't revive for nearly an hour. But my father told me that when the lady I had tried to rescue told the story to Lord Elrond, she made no mention of any misused magic or poorly aimed arrows, at least not publicly. Túveren was another matter, though. He repeated my efforts in a highly ironic style, and eventually composed a poem on the subject in the style of the grand epics of old. Most of his listeners, fortunately, did not believe that some of the more colorful events had actually happened. But I was not surprised to learn that my parents believed every word of it.

I was in a state of abject depression for a long time. However, I consoled myself with the thought that I _had_done my best. It has long been a philosophy of mine that the moral and eternal significance of an act is determined not by its outcome but by the intentions that led to it. I did learn something, though. When using magic, _always be specific_!

_Ethuil _- springtime, corresponding roughly to April and May, our calendar

_Cuio vae, ion velui. No i Melain berio gen - _Farewell, sweet son. May the Valar protect you.

_Rochthrosg _- brown horse. Faelon is not very imaginative.

_Daro _- stop. You should know this one already . . .

_Talaf, edro nu dellyn tin - _Earth, open beneath their feet!

_Belegurth _- "Great Death," a euphemism for Morgoth; the Sindarin version of his name was Belegûr, but was never used.

Translations either provided or verified by members of the Council of Elrond website.


	3. Chapter Two: The Beast

Chapter Two

The Beast

By the time of my twenty-sixth birthday I had become rather more independent than previously. Although I still heeded the instructions of my parents, I was living in my own house, working for my own living, and gradually establishing myself in the community. If any mortals are kind enough to read these memoirs, I admit that they may find it laughable that I was just getting started at that age. I would point out, however, that among the Eldar it is common for young elves to assume full status as adults over a much longer period of time than it is in other cultures. Should any Secondborn still think that twenty-six is far too late for this, I might ask them to try looking at certain of their own customs, such as marriage at the age of sixteen, from our perspective.

But I digress. I was at that time in the employ of a master fletcher by the name of Cúnir. We were both finishing up in the workshop one winter evening as the last light of the setting sun poured in through the windows to make shining patches on the wall. Under Master Cúnir's scrutiny, I had just put the final touches on a hunting arrow. No sooner had I set it aside and risen from the workbench when he picked up the arrow and studied it with the practiced eye of a craftsman who has followed his trade for centuries. I was nervous; most people would be if their work was on trial in such a court. He handed the arrow back to me. "Tell me, Saelon. Are the fletchings on that arrow attached properly?"

I looked it over, giving it rather more attention than I had when I first made it. The job seemed as good as most. "Yes," I said, having learned long ago that "I think so" got nowhere with Master Cúnir.

Sitting down in his padded chair by the fireplace, he began munching one of the mint sweets that were his only vice. I was just putting away my tools when he spoke again. "What about the shaft? Is it straight, with the right amount of bendiness?"

Bendiness. You must watch out for those obscure Elven technical terms. I wanted my dinner, but I gave the shaft a brief inspection. It was serviceable, perhaps not the best for long shots, but good enough for most uses. "Yes."

"Is the nock carved just right? Is the head attached properly? How is the overall balance of the arrow? In short, is it a good arrow?"

Apparently he was on one of his crusades for quality of product. "Yes. It is a good arrow, Master Cúnir," I replied patiently. He rocked his chair back at an angle and stared at the ceiling. Taking this as my opportunity to go, I hurried quietly out of the room and prepared some dinner for myself.

I was just finishing the last of the berry cobbler when he came in. With deliberation and care he lit the candle on the table and set a place for himself. I have never been known for an ability to see the future; however, at that time I knew that it might be wise for me to leave, so I got up and headed for the door. His voice stopped me. "Saelon."

"Yes, Master Cúnir?"

"I have two questions for you. First, what have you done with my cobbler?"

"I have eaten it, sir."

"Blast you, you bottomless pit." He seized a small loaf of bread and began applying so much raspberry jam to it that it seemed he was trying to create a replacement berry cobbler.

"The other question, sir?"

"That arrow you made. You said it was a good one. If you were charged by a wild bear, is that the arrow you'd pull out of your quiver?"

That was a difficult question to answer. In strict truthfulness, I probably wouldn't, but pride began to work in me. It wasn't a _bad_ arrow. I _might_ use it in an emergency. I was about to answer when another thought occurred to me. Master Cúnir was somewhat of an eccentric. It was at least remotely possible that he had devised some bizarre test to hold me accountable. My answer could have unforseen consequences. I thought about it for a long time as he stared at his bread, and finally answered, "Yes. I have faith in that arrow, because I made it."

My words seemed to hang in the air. Master Cúnir pondered them for a while, and then bit into his makeshift dessert with an air of finality that said I was dismissed. Although he generally ended our conversations by ignoring me, that habit didn't bother me very much, especially when I compared him with most other elves of his age who _began_ conversations by ignoring me.

It is not difficult to imagine how my conscience troubled me that night. If I had told an outright lie I could have forgotten it and gone to sleep, but since I had told a half-truth it was the internal debate that kept me awake. I finally negotiated a uneasy truce with myself by deciding that it all depended on the quality of the other arrows in the quiver.

On my next free day I went out hunting. To this day, I do not know what insanity possessed me and caused me to do that. If any of my readers have read tales designed for moral instruction, they are no doubt expecting that I will meet a wild bear in the wilderness. Since my parents had provided me with those same moral stories in my youth, I was also fully expecting to meet a wild bear. That took all the enjoyment out of hunting. Countless wild-bear-scenarios were running through my head, distracting me so much that I jumped at every bear-shaped shadow and caught nothing. Bears were behind every bush; bears were making any sound which I heard but could not explain. I was not comforted when I remembered that my employer had occasionally displayed the gift of foresight.

Although my concious mind was certain that Master Cúnir was not crazy enough to capture a wild bear and set it on me in the forest purely out of a desire to ascertain the truthfulness of my statement, fear is always irrational. With all of these things on my mind, I decided to go home in mid-afternoon, rather earlier than usual. I was about two leagues away when I stopped to eat the last of my trail food. (Always eat your trail food before going home; people will think you are a glutton if you save it and eat it with your usual dinner, but they will never know if you eat it all while you are gone.) After unbuckling my bow and quiver and resting them against a tree, I sat down to eat. I had finished my meal and was just wiping off my fingers when a large black shape passed into my field of vision.

I sat absolutely still and did not move a muscle for at least ten seconds - not even my heart. At first, my mind shouted BEAR! but upon brief hurried reflection it seemed unlikely that a bear would be perched atop a very large tree. Eventually my eyes accepted the fact that they were looking at a dragon. The dragon was also looking at me.

Mothers of young children enjoy playing the "still-and-quiet" game. In this contest, both players attempt to remain motionless and silent for as long as possible. This game is, of course, nothing more than a clever trick to get noisy children to be quiet. What most parents fail to recognize is that this game also teaches valuable life skills. For the next five minutes or so, I put my still-and-quiet skills to good use. It seemed that the dragon was unaware of my presence, unless it was merely tormenting me. The moment it turned its head in a different direction I slipped behind a tree and began considering several courses of action.

_#1: Remain where I was and hope it went away._ Although its execution would require a great deal of nerve, this method offered a high chance of survival, unless the dragon smelled me. Did dragons have a good sense of smell? I had no idea. The primary objection to this plan was that it left a dragon at large in a peaceful and largely defenseless country.

_#2: Attempt to escape and spread the alarm._ This method offered perhaps the best compromise between personal safety and my duty to the elves of Imladris. The primary objection to this plan was that other than this small forest, the country was fairly open, offering little cover, and all of the stories that I had heard about dragons indicated that they had excellent sight and hearing.

_#3: Shoot the dragon._ The advantages of this method (such as they were) were fairly obvious. This dragon also seemed rather smaller than most, perhaps indicating that it was too young to have grown a full coat of armored scales. The primary objections to this plan were that I was not an exceptional archer, I was on my own, dragons were nearly impossible to kill, and if the shot failed I would find myself in a highly unpleasant situation. In other words, an objective examination could not fail to conclude that it was virtually hopeless.

Those who have any previous knowledge of me will probably not be surprised to learn that I chose the third possibility. However, before they condemn me as a brainless, foolhardy idiot I should like to mention that I took certain precautions. If dragons were at all like birds they would take off moving in a forward direction, so if I concealed myself somewhere in front of it, I could shoot at it as it passed overhead. If I failed to kill it, it still might not be able to locate the origin of the shot. Now that I have related this, my readers may carry out their original intention to condemn me as a brainless, foolhardy idiot. They would be in good company.

I spent the next five minutes inching on my stomach towards my chosen hiding place. A dense patch of bushes choked the space between two young oak trees, and many of them still had thick foliage even though it was nearly midwinter. Once I arrived there, I checked the dragon. Still no change. Now began the most difficult part. Rolling onto my back, I began worming my way into the bushes, which were the dry sort of bushes that emit loud snapping noises if they feel themselves to be threatened. By the time I was entirely concealed within the cluster I had realized that it would be difficult if not impossible to get out again. Also, it would require a great deal of noisy contortions just to draw my bow.

I began to wonder if this was really a good idea, but once I have committed myself to a course I generally follow it to its end. So I waited for the dragon to take off. And waited. It seemed that perhaps it intended to sleep there in that tree. Eventually I resorted to the imitation of sounds that might be made by a wandering cow. I do not know if that had any positive effect, but for one reason or another, the dragon leapt off its perch and skimmed over the treetops. As I drew my bow, I noticed the cruel irony: the arrow I was using was one made by Master Cúnir. I mentally promised the Powers that if I survived I would confess my falsehood. At the moment the dragon passed overhead, I fired.

What happened next fell sadly short of my expectations. The dragon stories I had heard indicated that when a dragon is struck by an arrow, it "gives a terrible roar, and, spewing black blood from its mortal wound, falls to the ground and smites it in fire and ruin." The arrow struck the dragon in the underside, but this dragon must not have read any dragon stories, because instead of a terrible roar it released a colorful Westron profanity, and instead of falling to the ground it began to swoop back and forth over my approximate location, incinerating large clumps of trees with its fiery blasts. The reader will remember that I was entangled in my bushes and unable to escape.

I tried to lie still until the dragon went away, but I was trapped in a smoking, steaming inferno and would not last long in my present position. As a rule, the trees were too damp to burn well, but they put out huge clouds of smoke while the drier underbrush crackled merrily in accompaniment. I struggled to get out, as I had no desire to crackle merrily along with it, but the harder I tried to free myself, the less progress I made. It took an immense effort of will to slow myself and advance one painful half-inch at a time.

I would have been overcome by the smoke had I not been wearing a cloak of fine elven weave. Those who have read about the various useful properties of these textiles will not be surprised to learn that they serve to filter air if placed over the wearer's mouth and nose. This cloak also displayed a marvelous ability to slide through the clutching twigs without getting stuck, but the rest of my clothes were rather more reluctant to part company with the shrubbery.

I had both legs and most of my torso freed when my hair caught fire. With that added motivation it was the work of a moment to burst from the bush and bury my flaming head in a mound of tepid snow. Did I mention that elven cloaks are fire-resistant? I began navigating my way out of the smoldering forest, a project in which I was somewhat hindered by the thick clouds of smoke, so that it was nearly dark by the time I emerged.

Once I was away from immediate danger I took stock of my situation. My equipment losses included one arrow; my knapsack with my supply of food and fresh clothing; my hunting knife; and the greater portion of my shirt, along with much of the underlying skin. It was getting colder as night approached, and the thick clouds would make it difficult to find my way home. As usual, I had told no one of my plans for the day. I considered my options, operating under the "think before you act" principle which my father had instilled in me after some of my earlier misadventures.

A cold breeze blew on me, causing me to shiver. Suddenly I was dragged off the ground and into the air as an iron grip closed around my torso, driving small pieces of bush deeper into the scrapes that adorned my ribs. "So finally the mouse emerges from his hole!" cackled a harsh voice. "I must say, you aren't much to look at." I was, or rather _we,_ were flying across the land at dizzying speed. Since it was dark, I was seized by a great terror that the dragon might crash into an unseen obstacle. Although I naturally had no care for the dragon's well-being, such a collision would scarcely bother it, while it would be very bad for me.

The dragon interrupted its mocking rant to ask a few questions. "Where are you from, little elf? Rivendell?"

"I shall not tell you where I am from, or anything else that might harm my fellow elves," I answered.

"Oh, a hero! I'm so afraid! Heroes are so heavy, and sometimes I _drop_ them!" It opened its claws slightly, almost letting me fall.

I had no desire to die at my age without ever seeing Elvenhome, but there was nothing I could do about it. Strangely, the dragon took a firmer grip on me and flew on. I wondered if the Powers were punishing me for lying.

It is common among the Eldar to dream of flying, and I have heard that mortals do likewise. I had never experienced this dream, but after this involuntary flight I regularly dreamed of flying - and woke up screaming. I am not at all sure how long the flight lasted, but it was not long before a number of lights appeared in the distance, and rapidly they grew larger and spread out. It was with some shock that I realized I was looking at Imladris, seen at night and from the air. A certain part of me wished that it were daylight. It wouldn't be everyday that I would fly over Imladris, and that part of me wanted to get a good view while the opportunity lasted.

Such speculations did not occupy me for long. From the position of the various lights, I judged that we were headed directly for Lord Elrond's house and getting lower every second, so I shouted as loudly as I could in the hopes of warning the elves on the ground, but the dragon squeezed me hard enough to drive the breath out of my body. With a sickening lurch it dove towards the ground, coming to rest on one foot directly on Elrond's balcony. I dangled painfully from its other foot, unable to do anything useful.

Lord Elrond was reclining with an open book spread over his face, but Lady Arwen, seated at her embroidery frame, spotted the dragon and leapt behind the door frame, shouting _"Ada!_ Look out!"

Elrond sat up groggily and removed the book from his face just as the dragon's blinding flame lit up the night, scorching the entire balcony and spilling through the doorway into the house. When the roar of dragon's fire had given way to the gentle snapping and popping of burning woodwork, Elrond spoke. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" He was the very image of dignity and power, despite the fact that he had just awoken and had his eyebrows singed off by a dragon.

"Many call me the Flaming Death, and I have come to protest the behavior of this insolent elf." It threw me at Elrond, who dodged expertly, causing me to crash painfully into the burning door frame. Elrond turned to look at me.

Many among elves and mortals dedicate their lives to the achievement of fame and glory in the effort that their names shall be known throughout Middle-earth until the end of time, and I must confess that I am not immune to this desire. However, at that particular moment I would have given a great deal for the blessed gift of anonymity. That was out of the question, though, because my father was one of Elrond's highest advisers, meaning that Elrond knew me rather well. As the look of recognition dawned on his face he muttered, "Why am I not surprised?" He then returned his attention to the dragon. "What is this behavior that you have come to protest?"

"Without any provocation, this scoundrel shot at me from ambush and sorely wounded me. I desire no conflict with the elves of Rivendell, and therefore I did not revenge myself upon him, but I insist that he be punished."

Elrond returned the dragon's gaze evenly. "Your request is without merit. Word has reached our ears of your conduct in the north, which is infamous beyond description and entirely unprovoked. We will respect your desire for peace, as we are not foolhardy enough to engage a dragon in combat unnecessarily, but you have no right to demand justice for yourself when you refuse it to others. Leave these lands, for I have nothing more to say to you."

The dragon, after spitefully tearing three long gouges in the floor, took off and flew away, roaring and blowing fire to scatter the terrified onlookers. It had not got more than ten yards from the balcony when it shuddered and began to fall suddenly. It crashed to the ground, and after a few feeble flaps of its wings, it lay still. The terrible beast was dead.

A soot-begrimed Glorfindel stepped out from under the balcony, holding his bow. "That was an unwelcome guest!" he said. "Is everyone all right up there?"

"More or less, thank you," Elrond replied, "although I had just finished telling that dragon that we would not molest it if it did not molest us. However, you had no way of knowing that, and it probably would have broken the treaty anyway." All of the elves who had been hiding in the house came rushing out to throw buckets of water on burning furniture and check everyone for injuries. Elrond inspected me with the air of an elf who has received a gift and is not sure what to do with it. "Saelon, why? Why did you shoot a dragon, instead of doing something safer like carrying off a bear cub or stealing treasure from goblins?"

"I know not," I said truthfully. I was exhausted, and the relief of not being dead had robbed me of both my strength and my presence of mind. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Elrond surveyed his balcony. The damage could be repaired, the dragon blood could be mopped up, and I was the only one who was hurt. His manner softened somewhat. "Well, you should get cleaned up. If you go home looking like that, your mother will probably pack immediately and go West. I think I can promise you that no one else will learn of your involvement in this business unless you choose to tell them." He was overcome by a sudden fit of coughing, and turned away with his face hidden behind his sleeve. I suppose the smoke must have been bothering him also.

Arwen emerged on the balcony again. When she caught sight of her charred and empty embroidery frame, she turned towards me. "Saelon," she said slowly, "this is your fault, isn't it?"

Sudden energy returned to my limbs, and I decided to make a hasty exit. I seized the balcony railing, swung out over the edge, and dropped directly onto Glorfindel. Some days nothing goes right.

No one ever did find out the full details of this incident, and so if anyone who knew me then is reading this, I must apologize for concealing this for so long. When my father noticed that I had aquired some mysterious injuries on the same day that a dragon was seen overhead, he was suspicious; when he observed that I also smelled like smoke his suspicions redoubled, but he asked no questions. There is a reason why I regard him not only as my father but also as my closest friend. The next time Mother came around collecting proverbs for her _Anthology of the Lore of Imladris,_ I submitted a Quenya phrase which I hope translates, "An elf does not know what he is capable of until his hair has caught fire."


	4. Chapter Three: The Intruder

Chapter Three

The Intruder

_"It was not intolerable when he was younger, it was simply like living next door to a natural disaster. With enough caution and forethought one could avoid him. Now that he is slightly older, however, he has developed a certain species of intelligence that enables him to hunt down his prey much more effectively."_

– _Arwen Undomiel_

Darkness was gradually building in Middle-Earth. Not actual, visible darkness, of course. It was early summer, and the days were getting longer and longer, which actually upsets some elves who prefer starlight to sunlight, but these tend to be the old sentimental types who do not actually do things very often, and who appreciate Middle-Earth largely for its scenic value rather than its usefulness.

As a matter of fact, _darkness_ is not a very useful metaphor for what was gradually building. Darkness is perceivable, whereas those who lived through the end of the Third Age didn't even notice anything unusual at first unless someone told them that they ought to. It would be better to speak of a great cloud of _worry_ building over Middle-earth. Some elves at the time said things such as "the very air seems laden with doom" but, while I cannot disprove those observations, people typically only started to talk about doom _after_ they knew something was wrong with the world.

I first learned about this cloud of _worry_ when Lord Elrond held a secret council with my father and Istar Radagast. Some readers might wonder how I had found out that _worry_ was building if I wasn't invited to the council, but the answer is simple. Usually, Father allowed me to observe important meetings so I could learn how Imladris was governed, but not this time. This circumstance by itself would have given me cause for concern, but there were others. Radagast (and other wizards, for that matter) usually only visited just before the arrival of grave danger. Several communities of Men to the south of Imladris had placed orders with Master Cúnir for large numbers of war arrows equipped with armor-piercing points. A delegation of dwarves had arrived from the Iron Hills.

After the dwarves had left, Elrond announced that Imladris would send an expeditionary force north to assist in the war against the goblins. This was an unpopular decision, and though his reasoning seemed sound to me, I understand that my approval is not particularly high praise for any idea. "If we do not fight the goblins in the north," he insisted adamantly, "we shall be forced to fight them here." His plan specified that recruitment was to be of volunteers only.

I wished to volunteer. Is anyone surprised? But when I was halfway to the barracks, I remembered that Father had told me I was not to go to war until I was at least a century old. In a typical display of optimism, I decided to ask him if the present circumstances would cause him to reconsider.

Father was _worried_ when I found him. He does not tend to worry over small causes; the remarkable good sense that has earned him a place among Elrond's advisers also enables him to distinguish the difference between minor difficulties and grave problems. The source of his disquiet was an ancient document which was unrolled on his desk. I engaged him in meaningless conversation while peering discreetly over his shoulder, trying to read the contents of the scroll, but it was written in Quenya. Blast. Although I have devoted some desultory attention to the speech of Valinor, I have never gotten much beyond translating simple phrases like, "the green trees are on the hill" (not in the hill, not under the hill, but on the hill). Westron is so much more interesting and useful, since no one really speaks Quenya anymore, although nearly all the other elves know it. And besides, Second Age handwriting is almost unreadable.

Our conversation had dwindled to an uneasy silence when Father spoke again. "You're here to speak to me about the expeditionary force, are you not?" he said. As I have mentioned, Father is brilliant.

"Yes. Although I know that you have specified that I am not to go to war for many years, I thought that you might be willing to reconsider under the circumstances." I proceeded to lay out many arguments in favor of my joining the force. Father listened carefully until I was done.

"Saelon, there is something you need to understand. I think you are capable of being a skilled warrior, and I do not fear the thought that you might lose your life defending your people. That is not why we have kept you from battle. We think that you should not have to kill at your age."

"I appreciate your concern, Father, but I have already killed an orc – at my cousin's house."

Father absorbed the information for a minute or two. "That illustrates the great change that has taken place even within your lifetime. When you were born, life was safer and more certain; your mother and I wished for you to grow up without experience of violence and cruelty. But now things are different." Frowning in deep concentration, he briefly read through the mysterious document again. "It is no longer certain that you will have a time for learning and mental growth before you are forced into battle. I would not have you join this expeditionary force, but you should study under the teachers of war. Your abilities in individual combat are advanced for your age, but now you need to learn the drill and coordination of a large army. You may need to learn it quickly."

His disquiet caused me to _worry_ as well. "What is causing this change of which you speak?"

"We do not yet know for certain, and there is little enough we can do about it right now."

I dislike being put off with a half-explanation and a verbal pat on the head, even by my father. That night I crept into his library with a Quenyan dictionary and a candle. I was not able to translate very much before I heard someone coming, but I could tell that the text which he studied spoke of the forging of the Rings of Power.

Some persons have said that I am incapable of being _worried_, but that is not correct. I simply express my worry differently, generally by obsessively training in combat and survival, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of trouble, and squirreling away large amounts of vital supplies in hidden caches all over the surrounding area.

When I arrived at the training station the next day, I saw that I was not alone. There were nearly four hundred elves reporting for duty. They seemed to be divided roughly into two groups: one group of anxious yet swaggering younger elves for the expeditionary force, and one group of older elves who had fought before and needed some review work before they could join the home defense militia. The younger ones seemed to enjoy antagonizing the elders by asking if their rusted spears had seen the light of day since the Last Alliance. I was a bit of an oddity. I was young, but I was not swaggering, nor was I joining the expeditionary force. There was a reason why I was not swaggering. Those who swaggered did so to impress a small group of onlookers, most of whom were unmarried ladies under five hundred years old. I knew that any efforts I put forth to impress this group would be totally wasted because I was still very young and my reputation, such as it was, had preceded me.

A distinguished captain eventually addressed the recruits. "Listen carefully, everyone - silence, you in the back - thank you. This is not going to be a swift process, nor will it be easy, so you will need to show discipline and work hard. Those who are going to the wars, come with me. Everyone else, go with my lieutenant."

I walked after the lieutenant, along with the elders. One of them fell into step next to me. After watching me for a few seconds, he observed, "You seem disappointed. Were you hoping to join the expeditionary force?"

Was it that obvious? Perhaps this individual was gifted with unusual penetration of thought. "Well, yes, actually. It is hard to stay here doing nothing when so many others are going to the wars."

"You are not 'doing nothing'," he responded adamantly. "You are training. An army of fresh-faced thirty-year-olds would be a menace to itself and everything else except the enemy."

I muttered something about what the other elves my age would think.

"What's that? Speak up, my ancient ears can't hear elves who mumble down their shirt fronts. If something is bothering you, get it out."

"I said, I am worried that the others my age will think I am afraid to go into battle."

"Two things. First of all, there are no other elves your age here. The youngest member of that sporting club pretending to be an army cannot be less than one hundred years old. Secondly, you should be afraid. However, I don't think that anyone will misconstrue your motives in that fashion. Elrond, in particular, has been heard petitioning the Valar to teach you the meaning of honest fear. It would be a waste of your potential to go now. When Gil-galad marched to the Last Alliance, he didn't do so immediately. He prepared for several years first. That's why we won."

"We? Were you really . . ."

"Yes. Back then, I was younger than some of that group over there. I made a nuisance of myself, asking Gil-galad almost every month, 'Are we ready? Are we ready?' And every time he said, 'Not yet.' Even Elrond started to wonder what was taking so long. When Gil-galad finally said, 'You are ready for war', the orcs didn't stand a chance."

Perhaps joining the militia was not as bad as it seemed. Training with reliable elves like him, I knew I would learn a lot more than I would have anywhere else.

I was assigned to the spear corps. This was a major blow to my pride. Although I knew that I was not among the best archers in Imladris, I had still expected to be a part of the archery corps. It seemed that I had overestimated my skill, probably because many of our best archers never participated in archery contests and so I had no idea that they could shoot so well. It was quite disheartening when Imladris' amiable old cooks and gardeners showed up with their dusty bows and filled the targets full of arrows at two hundred paces.

There is nothing dishonorable about using a spear. The veteran who had admonished me for my over-eagerness reminded me that Gil-galad's spear Aiglos struck even more fear into the enemy than the sword Narsil. However, spears simply are not very heroic.

Spears may not be heroic, but the use of a spear is far more complicated than it looks. We learned spear positions, combat techniques, formations, signals, and much more. There was one drill, which I will always remember with loathing, in which the lieutenant gave us a complicated series of maneuvers to perform, and then, as we were executing them, he would start striking random individuals with a stick. Those who were struck became "dead", and the rest of us had to try to close ranks and carry on without them. Meanwhile, he kept up such a steady stream of verbal abuse that it is a wonder we did not break ranks and thrash him.

I still kept busy when I was not at the drill field, as I worked part-time at the fletcher's shop, and I was also making an intensive study of Westron. In addition, I volunteered my services for any non-combat jobs that would assist the military effort. This was besides my training, watching, and stockpiling, so it is fortunate that the days were long.

One morning that summer I awoke with a feeling that it was going to be a momentous day. I sometimes have these feelings, and they are generally correct. I had no drills that day, so I went straight to Lord Elrond to ask him if there were any important tasks he needed me to do.

When Elrond saw me, he sighed and said, "No, Saelon, I do not have anything I need you to do." I began to think that perhaps I was annoying him.

"Is there anything of unusual importance happening today?" I asked.

"No, I can think of nothing like that."

"All right, it just seemed like today was going to be an important day."

Lord Elrond seemed surprised, and perhaps a bit dismayed. "To me, it seemed that today was full of foreboding. Now I know why."

"What?"

"Never mind." Just as I began to leave, he remembered something. "Wait! I have a message for the guard at the High Pass, and it is somewhat important that they receive it in the next few days, but the guard won't be changed for another two weeks. Can you take it?"

"I would be glad to, my lord. I shall leave at once."

"One more thing. My sons have been on an extended journey, and I expect them to return within the next few days. If you meet them, instruct them to hasten back to Imladris, for I would speak with them at once."

I took his message and hurried back home to prepare. I packed my weapons, a change of clothing, and some provisions, and then I went to my parents' house to borrow a horse.

Hurrying into Father's study, I asked him if I could take one of the horses. He looked up from his paperwork. "No, son, you may not borrow a horse. Where thou goest, thou shalt go on foot!" When he saw my dismayed expression, he was seized by the laughter of a person who has not had much to laugh about for a long while. Eventually regaining the ability to speak, he reassured me that of course I could borrow one of the horses. When I left I could still hear him chuckling. I decided the _worry_ was getting to him, and so he had resorted to meddling with the minds of unsuspecting bystanders. At least I hope this was the case.

I set a fast pace on the road out and only stopped once, to have my lunch and give my horse some water. When I had gone about a mile from the stream, I saw a slight wisp of smoke off a short distance off the road. I thought that it might be Elladan and Elrohir, so I tethered my horse to a tree and set off towards the smoke in order to deliver my message. But something didn't feel right. I sensed danger somehow, and it seemed that I was being watched. Slowing my pace, I began advancing with what I hoped was unparalleled stealth. I strung my bow, just as a precaution, and tried to see if there was anyone in the surrounding forest, but I saw nothing as I drew nearer to the smoke. I also tried to see if the animals and birds were behaving differently, but I am no expert in such matters, and I could not tell if there was any change.

Suddenly there was a crashing sound, and I saw one of the sons of Lord Elrond (I could not tell which) running out from a dense thicket. He glanced over his shoulder just before he passed from my field of vision. An angry man with a dagger plunged out of the thicket not far behind him, hot on his trail.

I tried to shoot the man as he went by. My aim was good, but the arrow brushed a tree branch between us. Instead of burying its sharp head properly in his body it struck him in the upper leg. Crying out in pain, he stumbled behind a thick oak tree. I strung another arrow and began creeping towards him. He cautiously looked around the other side of the tree; if his reflexes had been any slower, my second shot would have split his head, but he took cover just in time.

Two more figures appeared near him. They were clad in grey and armed with bows. Instantly, I dropped behind cover. One of the men in grey took a position behind a bush, and the other conferred with the warrior whom I had shot. An arm reached out from behind the tree and pointed in my general direction.

_Think before you act! _What was I to do next? I had several conflicting duties. The message for the guard station was clearly unimportant compared with the present situation. I could try to help Elrond's son, or I could go back to Imladris and warn the others. The obvious solution was "help Elrond's son", of course, but I was trying to be responsible. A glimpse of grey fabric alerted me to the presence of another archer very close to me on my right. They clearly outnumbered me, and they seemed to have better skills in the forest than I did. Reluctantly, I decided to try to make my escape.

Concealment seemed useless against such skilled opponents, so I simply jumped up and ran. I heard an arrow flying nearby as I dodged between trees and bounded over small obstacles. Risking a quick glance behind me, I saw that at least two archers were pursuing me, and I decided to trust in my running speed rather than archery or woodcraft.

What's this? my readers might say. An elf who doesn't know the woods? I would remind them that even the elves cannot learn everything by the age of thirty.

The chase cannot have lasted more than an hour and a half, though to me it seemed much longer. Every time I tried to turn back towards the place where I had left my horse, my pursuers cut off my path and nearly caught me. I might have been caught if I had not taken my usual precaution of packing a small emergency ration of lembas, which gave me the strength for a long run. I hope that my display of prudence in this matter will cause my readers to re-consider their previous opinion of my mental capacity. Eventually the sounds of my pursuers became fainter and died away. I concluded that I had outdistanced them, at least for the present, which gave me some time to think more carefully. It seemed to me that there was no hope of reaching my horse, so I set off on the long run back to Imladris. Before this incident I had thought that my physical endurance was good, but that was only because I had never truly pushed the limits of my capabilities. I encountered those limits that day; even the lembas was barely enough to keep me going, and I did not get home until after nightfall.

The alarm had already been raised when I returned. Elves were scurrying from one place to another in small groups, talking nervously. I hoped that this meant that Elladan or Elrohir had escaped. Finally I staggered into Lord Elrond's council chamber. "My lord," I gasped, "there are– " Sitting uncomfortably in a chair next to Elrond was the man I had shot, his leg swathed in an enormous bandage.

"YOU!" he shouted, jumping up to do something terrible to me, but wincing as his weight came onto his injured leg. "WHAT DID YOU THINK-"

"But you were-"

Elladan and Elrohir were also in the room. Elrohir broke in. "Sit down, Estel! You'll make it worse!"

Estel. I had heard that name before. Elrond had said, "my sons", and I naturally assumed that he meant _only_ Elladan and Elrohir.

Elrond, with the look of an elf who has swallowed fire and is trying not to spit it out, stood and spoke very calmly. "Erestorion, this is my foster-son Estel. I think you have met him before, but it was when you were younger, and you may not remember him. Estel reports that he was shot in the forest by a rogue elf. Do you perhaps know anything about this?"

"He was chasing Elrohir with a knife, so I shot him."

"What! I never - wait, you didn't - yes, you obviously did." Estel removed a toasting fork from his pack and stared at it in disbelief. "Morgoth's hammer, it _does_ look a bit like a knife. Why do these things happen to me?"

Elrond collapsed into his chair. "Is it safe to say that I can call off the patrols?"

"Yes, I think so." Estel bent his toasting fork double and hurled it out the window.

There was an awkward silence. I mumbled an incoherent apology, and Estel mumbled an incoherent response. Now that he was marginally cleaner and somewhere well-lit, I _did_ recognize Estel. Elrond was trying to calm himself by breathing deeply with his eyes shut. Suddenly he sat up straight and his eyes flew open. "Estel," he asked, "why were you chasing your brother with a toasting fork?"

Estel looked a bit sheepish. "Didn't you ever chase your brother with a sharp instrument at some point in your life?"

"No - although I may have thrown a few things at Maglor. But not at your age."

I heard running footsteps outside the door, and Lady Arwen ran into the council chamber, out of breath and highly agitated. When she saw the wound in Estel's leg, she froze in shock. Then she noticed my presence. I am not blessed with foresight, but a sixth sense told me that further apologies could wait until later. I heard a scream of rage, and as I fled out the door a wooden book-end glanced off the side of my head. I did not stop running until I was safely locked inside my small house. Apparently I was not as exhausted as I had thought. It is my opinion that it was unfair of her to immediately blame _me_ for Estel's injuries, without knowing anything for certain, but she probably assumed that the Incident with the Dragon was merely a practise exercise on my part and that this was the grand _finale_.

For the next two days I skulked about Imladris like a ghost, a very nervous and ashamed ghost in my case. Master Cúnir refrained from commenting on the incident except to say that I should have used a broad-head, since Estel had been an unarmored target. Father seemed to have decided that it would be better if he didn't visit me for a while.

The elves at the training field as a rule could not decide whether to scowl or laugh at me. Some did both. I was just leaving the drill field when I saw Elrohir coming, and since he had also spotted me it was futile for me to avoid him. He joined me on my walk home. "What is it to be?" I said. "Boiling oil or snakes?"

"Oh, it's not that bad." We continued on in silence for a while.

"It is extremely fortunate that I did not succeed in killing him. I think that I would have hit him near the heart if my arrow had not deflected off a branch."

He pondered my statement. "I suspect that it was more than a branch that deflected the arrow; Estel is marked for a higher destiny than becoming yet another hapless object left lying punctured in your wake. He's had narrower escapes than that before. I think the Valar watch over him."

"Which means that they are not likely to be very pleased with me, I suppose. By the way, why did Arwen take it so badly? After all, Estel is your foster-brother too, and yet you have not tried to maim me with a book-end. Is it because this is not the first time she thinks that I have plotted to make her life miserable?"

An expression of foreboding came across Elrohir's face. "Estel . . ." he said at last, "is . . . more than a foster-brother to her. They have pledged to be married."

We had arrived at my house. Elrohir remained on the porch while I stepped in and began to cram necessities into a pack. Through the front window, I asked, "For how long should I be gone? Will one month be sufficient?"

"Longer. Definitely longer. In fact, you might want to read this." He handed me a parchment.

It was a commission to join the expeditionary force, leaving the next day. At the bottom there was a note from my father, which read:

_Son, considering recent circumstances, I have decided that perhaps you are better off at the wars than anywhere else. Indeed, you may be safest there. You have as much right and duty to protect your people as any other elf. I know that you will do your best._

"Do you know something?" I said to Elrohir. "The commander of the expeditionary force will not know that I have been chosen to wield a spear! I may have another shot - pun not intended - at joining the archers!"

"You do that, Saelon. Just be sure to stand in the front rank, and do not turn around until you have exhausted your arrows."


	5. Chapter Four, Part One: Memory

A/N: This is the first part of what was originally drafted as "Chapter Four." However, due to the excessive business of both author and editor, and the size of the chapter, it will be published in several parts.

* * *

><p>Chapter Four<p>

Part One: Memory

Anyone who thought that I published these memoirs out of vanity and a desire to increase my reputation has probably come to a different conclusion by now. But I am not publishing them as a dire warning, either, in an attempt to cure others of rashness and over-optimism. I simply want my readers to have some idea of what might happen to them if they choose to follow in my footsteps, and I leave it to them to decide their own paths.

On a somewhat related note, the mortal Men I have spoken with say that their memory is much less precise than that of the elves; they cannot "see" past events as clearly. They seemed to regret this fact, but I can say from experience that memory can be a curse as well as a blessing. There are some things which I shall remember for the rest of my life, no matter how hard I try to forget them.

I was posted on watch near our forest camp, but I must admit that I was not watching very carefully. We were in fairly peaceful territory near the west bank of the Anduin, nothing particularly alarming had happened so far, the weather was perfect, and I had been on guard from midnight until shortly before noon (Elves are accustomed to stand watch for very long periods of time, as we require little sleep). Under the circumstances I felt that even keeping my eyes open showed remarkable commitment to duty on my part. I was, in fact, daydreaming, thinking about the stories that Elrond and Glorfindel and my father used to tell, stories of the great heroes of the Elder Days. Thus, when someone tapped me gently on the shoulder, I leapt to my feet and whirled around, drawing my sword.

"Surprise!" said the Mirkwood elf who had interrupted my meditations. "That was a weak scream of terror; I was anticipating something louder. I don't suppose we could try again? I sneak up behind you and startle you again, and you turn around suddenly, but this time you scream loud enough for the whole camp to hear you. No? Anyhow, I have been sent to inform you that we shall be quitting these fair glades in about two hours, so your watch ends early. As in, now."

For the record, I did _not_ scream. (**Editor****'****s ****note****: ****Yes****, ****he ****did****!**) Now fully awake, I began to lecture him. "I am quite sure that the Valar did not endow you with the gift of stealth merely for your own enjoyment. And also, you would-"

"What's that?" His head jerked to attention, and he pointed over my shoulder.

I almost looked but stopped myself. "Good try, but I will not turn my back on you for any reason whatsoever. I was not born yesterday."

Just as the other elf seized my shirt collar and jerked me behind a pine tree, nearly breaking my neck, I heard a voice shouting "Elves!" in Westron. A throwing-axe flew past us, near where we had been standing, and something else rattled through the branches over our heads. Dry pine needles rained down in abundance. Nobody moved for the next few seconds.

My first instinct was to ready my bow and commence slaughtering the intruders, but I thought before I acted. "We need to report this to the commanders. You should go back to the camp, while I hold them off."

"Wait." He was on his hands and knees peering through the pine branches. "There are only five of them, or at least I can only see five. Two men and three orcs. I can create an illusion that will have them fleeing for safety."

"I do not doubt your ability to inspire fear. What sort of illusion would you use? Choose swiftly, because they are getting closer."

The elf gave this some rapid thought, pressing his hands against the sides of his head to prevent the ideas from escaping. "A raging fire?"

"Fires don't spring up out of nowhere, unless the person creating them is considerably more powerful than either of us. They would not believe such an image."

"A ferocious troll?"

"The sun is shining."

"More elves?"

"The wind blows from us to them, and orcs have keen noses. Can you counterfeit odors?"

"Elves don't smell like much."

"Orcs think we do." I was rapidly losing patience.

"A whirlwind? Those spring up suddenly."

That gave me an idea. "Actually, I can produce a _real_ whirlwind, although I have yet to try a very large one. I would think that the general principle is the same." I must acknowledge that I was exaggerating. I had tried my hand at whirlwind-creating a few times, when no one was watching, but had not done much better than a dust devil. (**Editor****'****s ****note****: **_**Now **_**he ****tells ****me****!**) The reader already knows that I had used magic in battle before, with limited success, but I was now older and more experienced, and besides that whirlwinds are easier than spontaneous pitfall traps. As Glorfindel has taught me, overconfidence is so much more enjoyable than realism, and sometimes it is more effective.

I began to gather the wind and spin it into a small pillar, hidden from the enemy's view. It was difficult for several reasons, but those are beyond the scope of this memoir. (**Ed****: ****He ****means ****that ****they****'****re ****top ****secret**) Startled by the sudden wind change, the raiders clustered together for defense, but when twenty seconds went by with no cataclysm, they began to take courage again. I knew that my window of opportunity was short so, even though my whirlwind did not quite measure up to my expectations, I shouted "Take that, villains!" and steered it into their vicinity.

They were not nearly as dismayed as I had hoped. They were, in fact, puzzled and slightly amused. Drifting towards them was a spiraling pillar of wind about four feet tall and two feet wide. Which is still not bad, as far as magical storms go. Although it was not very large, its winds were rather more powerful than any I had created before. When it came at the raider captain, he stepped casually out of the way. Suddenly, it turned of its own accord to follow him, and I felt it break out of my control. Dodging more swiftly, the captain was still unable to evade his attacker, and the whirlwind engulfed him.

In the words of King Thingol of Doriath, "It is a terrible thing when magic takes the bit between its teeth." Unable to do anything else, we sat and watched as the storm roared with increasing fury, though its size remained the same. The howling winds knocked the raider off his feet, which was the last we saw of him for some time, as the whirlwind was stirring up a great cloud of dirt and debris. His comrades no longer seemed to think that this was an amusing diversion; indeed, they were on the brink of flight.

All but one of them fled in terror when the whirlwind, apparently satisfied with the destruction it had wreaked upon their captain, came after the rest of the band. One orc, slightly braver or more intelligent than the rest, climbed a tree with great rapidity, evidently feeling that he would be safe there from a whirlwind slightly shorter than he was. He was correct. With no readily available targets, my pint-sized natural disaster began zipping aimlessly back and forth, neatly wrecking a narrow swath of forest. My companion and I had to shift our position rather rapidly to avoid it. **(****Ed****: ****And ****I ****quote****, "****Ack****! ****It ****comes ****after ****us****!"**)

After the crashing and roaring had died away, the Mirkwood elf peered out of our hiding place. "It's dead, praise the Valar."

"And we are not," I replied. "Praise the Valar for that as well."

We headed cautiously back to the field of victory. The orc was still clinging resolutely to his tree, and the raider captain was lying inert in the center of a scoured patch of ground. He looked like he had been washed with lye and dried with a thorn bush, but he seemed to be making small whimpering sounds, so we came a little closer to him. He was covering his face with his arms and reciting, "Stop it, stop it, stop it, no, no, don't hurt me!" over and over again.

I was moved to show mercy to him. "If we spare you, will you go home and rethink your life?"

Slowly, he uncovered one eye. "I've already rethunk my life, sirs. And I'm going home. Raiding just isn't worth it."

He staggered out of sight to the north, nervously checking for whirlwinds. I looked up into the tree. "That applies to you as well." As he climbed down, the orc carefully insulted my parentage in very bad Sindarin, and then followed his captain. I felt tempted to put an arrow in his back, but contented myself with merely cupping my hands over my mouth and blowing loudly. I suspect the orc did not stop running until nightfall.

When I turned around, my comrade seemed to be choking. "What is the matter?" I asked.

He collapsed in helpless laughter.

"I admit that certain elements of this incident may be a cause for amusement," I said, "but we are at war. War is not funny. I am going to report at the camp; you may follow when you can breathe properly."

As I walked back to camp, I heard him carrying on behind me, "Take that, villains! _Whoosh__!"_ and still laughing.


	6. Chapter Four, Part Two: Minstrel

Chapter Four

Part Two: Minstrel

I was somewhat worried that this undeniably chipper elf would tell others about my foray into magical combat. Not that I was at all ashamed of my actions in that matter, but there were already more than enough rumors and strange stories about my previous exploits circulating through the camp.

He _did_ tell others about my whirlwind; in fact, he sang about it. The elf, whose name was Calengolf, was a minstrel from Mirkwood. Of course, I had a few days respite before the story became widely known, as that was how long it took before Calengolf could sing it without laughing. I ought to mention now that he has been kind enough to edit these memoirs and prepare them for publication (although I have no idea why he offered to do it, and I am not quite sure that I wish to know).

(**Ed: For the record, Calengolf isn't a name I go by at home. There were Stern Warnings given about bringing disgrace on the family name; I believe many would call this a "stage name."**)

We continued north. As Isildur discovered to his cost, this was prime territory for a goblin ambush, but we encountered no enemies. It seemed likely that the goblins had drawn all of their forces into the strongholds of Moria and Mt. Gundabad.

Among Men, there is an adage that warfare is ninety-nine parts boredom and one part sheer terror. I can say, from personal experience, that the section about boredom is correct. Marching along good roads in fine late-summer weather was a privilege, and trekking along narrow pathways under dull grey skies was a duty, but staggering up and down steep grassy hills in cold blowing rain was a penance.

Calengolf firmly believes that when the Great Enemy (who is not Sauron) corrupted his captives into orcs, he did so by sending them on eight-league forced marches under horrible conditions. I would not rule out that possibility entirely.

In grim silence, we slipped and struggled down the side of the last hill. Not that we were making camp at the bottom. The valley floor had the approximate consistency of thick potato soup (without the potatoes), so when we arrived, the unfortunate persons sent ahead to set up the camp were trying vainly to plant tent pegs in the eroding slope, about halfway down. Elven tents are of fine construction; indeed mortals might say that they are magic. They are light, strong, and resistant to fire, water, and wear. However, the persons who designed these tents neglected to design proper tent pegs to go with them. I wonder if elves have been using inferior tent pegs since the Elder Days?

(**Ed:** **When I visited Imladris, I asked Glorfindel about First Age tent pegs. He looked puzzled, and said that as far as he could recall, the tents of the Noldor stayed up without pegs. Lucky swine.**)

As darkness fell, the Imladris elves and most of the Mirkwood elves were bundled up in their cloaks, glaring at each other and hoping someone else would make dinner. The Dwarves were just staggering into camp, looking more than half dead, and the Men had stopped to make camp around two miles back. A dismal squelching sound heralded the arrival of our commander, surrounded by a faint light that was definitely not from a torch. Some elves, particularly the old well-traveled ones, have the ability to shine gently in the dark.

I asked Glorfindel (who is probably Imladris' resident shining-in-the-dark champion, so much so that he can actually shine during the daytime) once if he thought I would ever learn how to do that. He said that yes, I probably would, and then went on to say something semi-prophetic about "for the greatest lights are seen in the greatest darkness," which I thought was slightly disturbing, because while elven prophecies are generally rather ambiguous, once they actually come true, one looks back and thinks "Arrgh! That was blatantly obvious, and I could have saved myself so much pain and sorrow if I had only figured it out in advance." See, for example, the Doom of Mandos, and Tuor's message to Turgon. But since elves are, as a rule, not stupid (despite what these memoirs may have led you to believe), then the prophecies must not be that obvious if no one ever figures them out in advance. And for that matter, many of the elves of Nargothrond figured out what Ulmo's message to them meant, but it did not do them much good.

In my case, I have spent quite a bit of time trying to figure out what Glorfindel meant, but I am still stumped. Glorfindel is not sure what he meant, either, except that it was an ambiguous piece of advice in the grand tradition of ambiguous elven advice. Anyway, back to our gently shining commander.

He raised his voice to be heard above the rain. "We are forming a force of scouts, and I am looking for volunteers." A few elves stood and joined him. I was undecided. Although my usual habit was to volunteer for almost anything other than firewood gathering, I knew that my forest and stealth skills were not up to the task. Then I realized that scouts tended to use bows rather than spears, so I volunteered.

Our commander smiled and said, "I shall try this again: We are forming a force of scouts, and I am looking for volunteers. The meeting will be held in my tent. Dinner will be served." There was such a rush of volunteers that he was forced to turn some away.

Wonder of wonders, he _did_ have a construction which could be called a tent. Under these conditions, no one complained about the tent's roof being held up by the heads of its seated occupants, nor did they notice that the floor sloped downhill about one foot of every three. It was (mostly) dry.

When everyone had been wedged into their places, the commander opened the meeting. "I shall warn you that scouting is very difficult and dangerous work. A scout must march twice as far as everyone else, while coming twice as close to the enemy. However, a scout's work is vital; it would do us no good to allow a goblin army between us and our homes, and we cannot strike the enemy until we know where he is."

"We will have six scout teams. I have already chosen their leaders, and everyone else will be assigned by random draw. In addition to the scouts, each team will contain at least one Man or Dwarf from the nearby settlements. Their knowledge of local terrain should prove invaluable. May the Valar protect us and guide our efforts."

One by one, we crawled to the center of the group and drew a wooden token from a bag. Calengolf drew early on, and took number four. I had the good fortune to draw four as well. When my number was announced, the leader of Group Four reacted in shocked disbelief. He demanded to see my token, and when he had verified my selection, he commenced trying to switch me for somebody from Group Five, but their leader would have no part in it. Then he offered to send me to Group Five without receiving anyone in return. Even that desperate offer was not accepted.

I did not take this very well, and asked him in rather strong terms why he was so eager to be rid of me.

"You may not remember me," he said, "but I certainly remember you, you walking pestilence. When you were around five years old, I visited your father to ask his advice about something. When I arrived, you were sitting on the front porch subjecting it to some ornamental carving with a pocketknife, and I asked you to watch my horse for me. Things would have gone well, except that I added a few patronizing comments about 'maybe when you are older you shall be able to ride a fine horse like this one.'" I had _thought_ he looked familiar, and now I knew why. I was not looking forward to this.

"When I emerged from the meeting, my horse was nowhere to be found, and neither were you. To this day I have no idea how you mounted him. Probably by climbing a porch column and jumping. I followed the trail of destruction, hoping that either he had calmed down or you had fallen off after a few miles, but that was not the case. I found the two of you eight miles away. Your ankle was badly twisted, presumably from a collision with one of the numerous obstacles you destroyed, but you had not fallen off, because, before you set out on your mad charge, you took the sensible precaution of tying yourself to the saddle! My horse was not injured physically, but he was always very jumpy after that."

"I have little memory of that occasion," I said (though I fear that this was not entirely truthfull), "and it hardly seems fair to hold it against me. It happened a long time ago."

"Twenty-five years or so is not nearly long enough, and since then I have Heard Things." When I demanded to know what sort of Things he had Heard, I received no answer.

* * *

><p>It was early in the morning, still an hour or so before sunrise. No one had slept much, and it was decided by common consent that if we could not sleep, we might as well be marching. Everyone stumbled around trying to prepare for another day's campaigning. Elves can see very well at night, but only if the moon and stars are shining, and the skies were a solid bank of dark clouds. I was feeding some of the pack horses their ration of soggy oats, while Calengolf was eating his ration of soggy wheat-cake.<p>

"If an elf had lived in Imladris," he asked, "what sort of stories might he have heard about you?"

I though about saying something diplomatic and non-committal, but eventually decided it would be useless. Casting diplomacy to the winds (and there were certainly enough winds for this purpose), I said, "This hypothetical elf of whom you speak might have heard that I was picked up and carried for miles by a dragon and then dropped on Lord Elrond's head, or that I once concealed myself in a snow-elf for the express purpose of frightening Lady Arwen and nearly froze myself to death when she came later than I expected, or that I shot Lord Elrond's foster-son due to a case of mistaken identity, or that I once deliberately locked Lord Elrond into the bath house and left him there all night, or that I dropped a group of travelers into a pit, or that I constructed my own Lothlorien flet which subsequently collapsed under the weight of myself and several friends, leading to at least two broken limbs and a legal action; those are just the major stories. However, at least one of them is completely untrue."

Calengolf shook his head in what almost seemed to be a display of admiration. "So which one isn't true? My money is on the snow-elf. I've tried to hide myself in one, but you just can't do it by yourself."

"I had help, but I promised not to tell anyone who it was."

"The dragon story?"

"No comment."

"The flet?"

"No comment, and stop guessing."

**(Ed.** **Motivated by my insatiable curiosity, I have since made a thorough investigation of this matter. Lady Arwen eagerly confirmed the veracity of the dragon story, the snow-elf story, and the shooting Elrond's foster-son story, and said that while she cannot prove it, she believes that Saelon was the malicious person who locked her father into the bath house. The Lothlorien Flet Incident is a matter of historical fact, sworn to in court by several competent witnesses. **

** That leaves the pit story. I cannot see how any party of travelers would have allowed Saelon close enough to them to work his peculiar brand of magic. However, there were several rather ingenious songs written about that incident. Perhaps he locked Elrond into the bath house **_**accidentally**_**? But I digress, which is sort of my job as editor and annotator.**)

"Many of the elves in this army are here to gain a reputation," I said. "I am here to lose one."

The expeditionary force moved out.


	7. Chapter Four, Part Three: Mayhem

Chapter Four

Part Three: Mayhem

Two days later the fourth scouting team was still with the main force, but we knew our time would come soon, because the first three teams had been sent out. The team's leader, Celegion, came to me during a halt for rest that afternoon. "We shall be leaving the army this evening, so I thought we should hold a meeting."

I trailed after him, and soon we came to a small group of persons seated in various postures around a bag full of food. Celegion climbed atop an unused saddle and addressed everyone in Westron. "Greetings to you, Elves, Men, and Minstrels. As we are about to pass together through an onslaught of terror, violence, death, and destruction presumably unparalleled since the Last Alliance, I thought it would be best if we at least knew each other's names. Starting with myself, I am Celegion. I shall not attempt to deny that I joined this army to impress a lady, but I hope to prove my dedication on the field of battle."

"Immediately to my left is Edrahil. It is suspected that he joined this army to impress several ladies - no interruptions, please!" A powerfully built elf was protesting this description of his motives.

"Next to him is his younger brother, who is here because he does everything Edrahil does. Also, he is skilled with horses." A small and quiet elf nodded to the group. I recognized him, and knew that he was not substantially older than myself. (**Ed. If you don't call 45 years a substantial difference**) His name was Thandor.

"Then there is Calengolf. He is a minstrel with us from Mirkwood, and alas! he still prefers the harp-string to the bowstring. I have no idea why he is here."

Calengolf spoke up. "It is hard to be a great minstrel without ever leaving the confines of one's forest. And by the way, minstrels do not constitute a third seperate species."

"I see. The individual sitting next to him is actually not a Dwarf; he is a man-child about thirteen years old. He is here because he wants to kill things, orcs preferably."

The small warrior objected. "I am here to protect my father's people! And my name is Aldrid son of Arnulf."

"Moving right along. Next to him, the person with the large axe, is Karl, hired by Aldrid's father to keep him from running amok, or from getting killed in a non-heroic fashion."

A heavily bearded Man waved cheerfully.

"Last but perhaps not least, we have Saelon Erestorion. That is Saelon, son of Erestor, for those of you who don't speak Sindarin. Unlike Calengolf, Saelon's parents actually permitted him to leave home under the family name, although I do not understand why. However, his remarkable array of talents will make him a very useful addition to our party. At times, he has served with unparalleled enthusiasm and daring as a wizard, fletcher, hunter, archer, march-warden, carpenter, riverboat captain, assassin, and expert horse-thief. He has joined to escape the dire peril of being a spear-bearer in the Home Guard."

Apparently, escaping my reputation was an exercise in futility.

"Since it is suspected that our army is observed by enemy scouts, we will break off from the main group tonight under the cover of darkness. I need not remind you that if we are found by the enemy, their warg-riders will destroy us quickly.

"Our primary duty is to make certain that no large enemy forces pass by us unnoticed on their way south. We are to progress on a course roughly diagonal to the main force, approximately north-north-west, and so a little bit of basic figuring will tell us that we must make nearly two miles for every mile they make if we are to re-join them later. "

Edrahil's brother said something to him. "Apparently," said Edrahil, "it's closer to a mile and two fifths."

"Whatever. Since your brother is so good at math, let's have him take charge of navigation."

* * *

><p>Aldrid's scabbard scraped against his mail shirt. "Quiet, there," whispered Celegion. "One slip and we could all be-"<p>

"I _am_ being quiet. Unlike you, who keeps snapping at us whenever-" We all noisily hushed both of them. After waiting a moment to see if we had been observed, we continued on, creeping along single file just below the crest of a ridge that ran perpendicular to the line of march. It was a fairly dark night and Calengolf was covering us in some sort of enshrouding darkness, which may have hidden us from the enemy, but it also caused us no end of difficulty.(**Ed. Don't everyone thank me at once.**)

"Stop," said a voice that sounded like Celegion. "Is somebody _eating_ something?"

"I am," I whispered. "Is that bad?"

"Yes - it is BAD! Unless you want the enemy to find us simply by following the trail of crumbs!"

"Chicken leaves no crumbs."

"Put it away, you useless piece of-"

Some one else broke in. "You can stop shaking me, you have the wrong person."

"I thought you were Erestorion."

"No. He's nearly six inches shorter-"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I left my measuring stick in Imladris. Where is that blasted fool anyway?"

"He's right behind you, I think."

"Yikes!" (He was hushed by a ghostly chorus) "Ah, there you are." Celegion buried his face in his hands. "Why are you eating at this unearthly hour?"

"It is quite simple, really. If an elf is awake and active from dawn until dusk, he eats three meals a day. However, if this unfortunate person is also forced to tramp across Middle-earth half the night, it follows that he must eat at least one more time to keep up his strength."

Celegion sighed. "Does anyone know any _quiet_ profanities?"

Suddenly Thandor froze. "Orcs! Get down!" All around me, I heard the muffled sounds of elves dropping to the ground and hiding under their cloaks. I joined them.

"I thought elves didn't swear," Aldrid said, looking around in bewilderment. "What does _yrch_ mean?"

Why anyone thought that sending a bi-lingual scout team out on a dangerous mission was a good idea, is beyond me. Of course, Thandor knew Westron, but in emergencies he reverted to his native speech. Anyone would. Fortunately, the orcs were some distance away and they were not particularly vigilant. I pulled Aldrid down (his armor clanking louder than a blacksmith's shop) and crammed a large piece of cold chicken into his mouth to keep him quiet. From the sounds of it, Karl received the same treatment, only without the chicken. He and Aldrid had been provided with highly useful elven cloaks, and I made sure that Aldrid was properly concealed under his.

We all played the still-and-quiet game, willing the orcs to turn aside. Elves are difficult to see when they do not wish to be seen, but this party of orcs was carrying torches. In addition, orcs can see well in the dark, and hear even better.

The orcs began singing a raucous marching song, which grew louder and more distinct as they came closer. Since my face was hidden under the hood of my cloak, I could not judge whether they were likely to stumble across us, except by listening. The glow of their torches spilled under the edge of my hood as the leader of the column came within ten yards of us. I had a wild urge to jump up, shout as loud as I could, and fall upon the orcs with sword and dagger, as I felt I could face any number of them in open battle, but if I kept lying here I would be stabbed in the back and die uselessly. To keep myself from doing anything rash like that I clutched Aldrid's ankle and held on as hard as I could.

It seemed to take an hour for them to pass us, but in retrospect it was probably half a minute. Nobody dared to move for quite a while, even after the enemy had passed over a hill and out of line-of-sight. Finally Adrid spoke. "Edrahil, you can let go of my foot now; the enemy are all gone."

Quietly, I let go of his ankle and crawled to a position some distance away from him while Edrahil protested his innocence.

Celegion stood up, on the brink of crazed laughter. "Like I said. Terror, violence, death, and destruction. Especially terror. Let us move on, before they smell Saelon's bedtime snack."

When the last elven cloak-maker has his or her going-West-Over-Sea sale, I will be there, and I will buy as many cloaks as I can carry. They are that useful.

* * *

><p>Three elves were hiding behind a log. It sounds like the opening to one of Calengolf's comic stories, but I can assure you that it was no laughing manner. Edrahil, his brother, and I were jammed together behind the aforementioned log not thirty feet away from a small orc encampment. We were downwind of them, of course, which gave us an unmatched opportunity to sample the combined odors of rotting wood, rotting meat, and rotting goblin, but at least they were unable to smell us.<p>

The three of us were the anvil in Celegion's trap; the other four formed the hammer. On the whole, we had tried to avoid the enemy, because our errand was more important than the few raiding parties we might have been able to wipe out. However, these orcs had prisoners, and we were all too young to grasp the concept that the good of the many comes before the good of the few. Actually, Karl was old enough, but he was overruled.

Now we were waiting for Celegion's group to attack from the other side. Thandor was shaking visibly, and looked rather pale. Edrahil put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't worry. It's not very dangerous; they will not even know they are under attack until it's too late."

Thandor pushed the hand away. "I'm not afraid," he whispered. "I just cannot stop myself from shaking."

"Don't blame him," Edrahil said to me. "This is his first battle. He's not even one hundred yet." I must have allowed some of my amusement to show. "Stop laughing at him," he muttered, "or you will have to deal with me when this is over!"

Thandor covered Edrahil's mouth. "Stop it! I can take care of myself."

"I was not laughing at you," I explained. "I was just wondering what he would think if he knew that I was not yet forty years old."

"What!" Edrahil was stunned for a few moments, and then, facing in a general westward direction, began rapidly beseeching the Valar for protection. An arrow cut through the air over our heads, and Celegion's soldiers stormed into the camp, shouting their war-cries. Celegion's was "For Imladris!"; Calengolf's was "Elves of Mirkwood!"; while Karl fought in silence. Aldrid's war-cry varied from day to day, but was generally bloodthirsty, boastful, and/or unwriteable. (**Ed. Such as "Death comes to you, you slimy-" followed by a Westron word whose meaning I probably don't want to learn.**) Edrahil jumped over the log and ran to join the melee, while his brother and I stood and began looking for targets.

I am not known for the ability to keep more than one thing in my mind at the same time, but I managed to realize that the arrow probably came from Calengolf's bow; if we missed the enemy, we might do to him what he nearly did to us. (**Ed. Yes! This time, Saelon took stock of his surroundings before releasing his inner Balrog! Edrahil's prayers were not in vain.**) I began to circle the campsite to the right, looking for opportunities to shoot, and Thandor followed me.

The orcs were taken totally by surprise, and escape was the only thought in their minds. Four of them burst out of the fight and rushed us. Thandor brought down one of them, but I had no arrow on my string when I first saw them, so I had to hurry my shot and did little damage to the one I hit. Then the three of them were upon us; Thandor deftly impaled one of them with his spear, and a second one sprinted past him and took to the forest. The third goblin, the one I had injured, attacked Thandor while his spear was still stuck.

Fortunately, I was able to draw my (still nameless) sword and parry the blow. With my bow, I struck the orc's head vigorously, and then dropped it to grip my sword two-handed and drive him backwards with a series of powerful blows. Finally I slipped one past his guard - but he dodged it.

Do not let anyone tell you that goblins are poor fighters. They are swift, clever, and of a naturally cruel and violent disposition. The goblins of the north are particularly formidable, generally having good armaments and highly developed fighting skills. In fact, I would rather have to fight three southern orcs than two northern goblins, although there are many who disagree with that opinion. (**Ed. Why don't you take a guess at Saelon's favorite topic of dinner-table conversation? A clue - it is not the weather, your health, or philosophy.**)

Anyway, let us return to the goblin. It is highly unpleasant feeling when one's opponent dodges a powerful sword-stroke, since it basically means that he can take an unhindered swing at one. (Unless one is using a shield, which I was not.) My momentum was carrying me forward, so I decided to make the best of it and lunge past him as he spun round to follow me. His sword left a ragged gash across my chin. Which was very close to my neck.

As I turned to face him I brought my sword up to guard my head, but he very sensibly tried to cut off my feet instead, and I had to do some hasty circle dancing to avoid this unpleasant fate. (**Ed. In case you have never heard of circle dancing, it is a dwarven competitive art form which began in the Iron Hills and has since spread as far as Erebor and the Blue Mountains. Ten or fifteen dwarves form a circle, with their hands on each other's shoulders, and begin a dance of intricate footwork and precise timing. As time goes on, the dance becomes faster and more complex; any dwarf who falls down is out. The last three dwarves standing share the prize, and if the dance goes on too long, the spectators usually hasten the end by throwing things or suddenly putting out the lights. I taught our scout team how to circle dance, and we actually got rather good at it, despite our varying heights, but when I started talking about a public performance, I was swiftly and brutally suppressed.**)

I finally managed to kill the durable goblin with an overhead blow. Nearby, Edrahil brought down the last of his opponents. He looked over at me. "That is the last of them, I hope. Where is my brother? Wasn't he with you?"

"He is right over-" I looked where I had last seen him, but he was not there. "Ah . . . well . . . I thought he . . ." There was no dead body, no pool of blood - he was simply gone. "I hope that you will not think that this is my fault."

"I certainly do think it's your fault, so I suggest that you go and find him!" I will point out that it was somewhat unreasonable of Edrahil to expect me to look after his brother in battle, when most of the time I was not considered capable of looking after myself anywhere. However, his distraught state of mind partially justified this unreasonable behavior.

Edrahil got down on his hands and knees and began looking for tracks, while I checked the clearing for bloodstains or other ominous signs. **(Ed. Edrahil is hopeless as a tracker. Saelon is a little bit better, but he has an appalling tendency to follow a trail in exactly the wrong direction.)** While we were doing this, Calengolf bounced (**Ed. Bounced? I must protest.**) into our vicinity, still full of the rush of battle. He was clutching a bloodstained hand-axe. "Some of the prisoners are hurt, and Celegion wants us- I say, what are you doing?"

"We are looking for his brother," I explained.

"Ah. That's obvious; he went that way, and so did an orc." Calengolf briefly examined the tracks. "The orc was in front, and Thandor was behind. They were both going with great haste. I think the orc knew he was being followed; he turned here, and looked behind him, then ran off even faster. Let's go after them, although Thandor probably isn't in any great danger." The three of us plunged into the forest like three hounds on the trail of a wounded deer. Or, more precisely, like one hound on the trail of a wounded deer, and two other hounds on the trail of the first hound.

We had followed the trail for about twenty minutes when I saw an orc-arrow buried in a tree trunk just off the line we were following. I pointed it out to Calengolf, who gave it a closer look. "It seems the orc tried to ambush his pursuer, but without much luck. Thandor dodged the arrow, but some part of him - his elbow, probably - got a nasty scrape on this branch. This happened around fifteen minutes ago" (Calengolf pointed to the sap leaking out of the tree) "so I suspect he has already caught the orc."

Edrahil was, to say the least, impatient. "Why don't we save the tracking lesson for later and find my brother already!"

"Speak of the Enemy," Calengolf said, and pointed. Thandor emerged from the forest, unharmed but rather unsteady on his feet. His left arm was bleeding slightly.

"Got him," he said.

Edrahil faced his brother in silence for a few seconds. With some reluctance, he finally spoke, as if the words were being dragged out of him. "I want to shout at you and tell you never to do anything like that ever again. But it was probably the right decision. If he had gotten away, he would have brought back reinforcements within a day or two. But please . . . try to be more careful."

"If I had been any less careful, we would not be having this conversation." With quiet pride, Thandor pointed to a shallow gash along the side of his neck.

"I did not need to see that," Edrahil said. "I think I'm going to pass out now."

"Here is good fortune!" I exclaimed. "My cousin showed me a way to swiftly revive those who have fainted, but I have never had an opportunity to test it before."

I believe that the correct Westron idiom for what Edrahil did is "gave to me a dirty look." "I think that you are bluffing," he said, "but just in case you are not, I shall remain conscious." I was not bluffing, and to this day I live in hope that someone will pass out in my vicinity. Perhaps they would be more likely to do so if they did not know I had a secret method for such cases. It seems to provide a powerful incentive for others to remain conscious. Now that I think of it, I wonder if Faelon's method is really worthless, but he was counting on people's unwillingness to allow me to carry out medical experiments on them? It would be quite typical for him. **(Ed. Naturally, I checked on this at the first opportunity. It seems that Faelon invented the method on the spot, and told it to Saelon as a joke. I haven't the heart to tell Saelon, though, for two reasons. First, he would be terribly disappointed. Second, I want to be there when he tries it on someone. Yes, I know, I am a disgrace to the Eldar, but after all, I cannot be sure that the method does not actually work until it has been tested.)**

We had one minor battle after that. I have found that I cannot give an account of this battle without shamelessly bragging, so I shall simply point out, for the record, that I killed three wargs and Celegion agreed to stop trying to trade me to another group.

The rest of the scouting mission passed without any noteworthy incidents. **(Ed. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Well, not quite literally. Do you know what happened the evening of that skirmish? Well, the prisoners were very happy to be rescued, and we were happy that none of us were dead, and apparently at some point during their raid, the orcs had captured an ample supply of this pale pink stuff which was some sort of home-made wine. So naturally, we celebrated. All of us were sprawled around a camp-fire, and Celegion came around distributing the pink drink to Edrahil, Thandor, Karl, and myself. To Saelon and Aldrid, he said, "Your warm apple juice will be ready soon." Big mistake. Aldrid hit Celegion across the face with a dead rabbit and challenged him to a drinking contest, while Saelon insisted that he was almost as old as Karl. Finally Celegion relented, and Aldrid and Saelon got their pink wine.**

** In the four hundred years or so that I have been a minstrel, I have learned not to disrupt any potentially funny incident when I see it happening, so I made polite small talk with the former prisoners while keeping an eye on Saelon out of the corner of my eye. To my disappointment, he seemed largely unaffected.**

** However, he made the mistake of placing his feet too close to the campfire, and eventually one of his boots caught fire. Not a big fire, just a small pale flame, like you might get with a piece of kindling. When Edrahil pointed it out to him, Saelon stared at his boot for a second or two, and then began to laugh. "Everyone, look! My boot's on fire!" More laughter. He did not make any attempt to put it out.**

** I jumped up and kicked dirt over his burning boot, while Edrahil took away Saelon's pink wine. "Hey!" he protested. "Give it back! I'm not finished yet."**

** "Yes, you are," we all said, and we sent him to bed early, although I privately wondered what would have happened if we had let him have more. I think Saelon could drink his fill of the strongest wine and still be able to walk without stumbling, but it does things to his judgement. And considering that his judgement is somewhat . . . imprecise to start with, things can get very interesting. Aldrid never did have his drinking contest, because Karl said that Aldrid's father had promised to personally skin him alive if Aldrid died of alcohol poisoning or any other preventable ailment.)**

We were all expecting a stern lecture when we got back to the main force, but to our surprise, none was forthcoming. Instead of receiving a lecture, we were assigned an even harder mission.


	8. Obsession: A One Act Play

Obsession:

A One-Act Play

by Calengolf the Indomitable

The following narrative may or may not be based on actual events. Judge for yourself whether it has the ring of truth.

Cast of Characters:

_Elrond Peredhel_, the wise and mighty lord of Imladris.

_Glorfindel,_ _Elrond's_ most valiant warrior.

_Mortal Man_, name unknown. One of _Elrond's_ dinner guests.

_Mortal Woman_, wife of _Mortal Man_.

_Young Elven Lady_, name unknown, seems to be a trained healer.

_Calengolf_, a minstrel from Mirkwood.

_Saelon_, destroyer of worlds.

[_Elrond_ is seated at the head of a long table, with _Glorfindel_ and _Young Elven Lady_ on his right and the _Man_, _Woman,_ and _Saelon_ on his left. _Glorfindel_ is dozing with his head on the table, and _Calengolf _is meditating comfortably in a nearby armchair. It is night, and obviously there has been a formal dinner, but most of the guests seem to have left. Soon, we find out why.]

_Saelon_: But we are not talking about ordinary leather; we are talking about boiled leather. With-

_Man_: It doesn't matter whether the leather is boiled or not, you still want to use a broadhead. That's the only kind of arrow that will cut through the leather and-

_Saelon_: Yes, I know that it will cut through the boiled leather, but it won't have enough force behind it to peel back the edges very far. It might hurt the orc, but it won't kill him.

_Young Elven Lady_: Do orcs even know how to boil leather?

_Glorfindel_ [sleepily]: Unfortunately, they do.

_Elrond _[sarcastically]: Well, this has been a most interesting discussion, but now I must bid you all good night.

[_Elrond_ leaves. _Glorfindel_ begins to snore quietly, while _Saelon_ and _Man_ pick up their verbal swords and resume the combat.]

_Man_: But a bodkin won't even cut through the boiled leather at all!

_Saelon_: Yes it will, it will punch through just like a leather-punching awl, and then it will go deeply into the orc without much secondary resistance from the armor.

_Young Elven Lady_: Do you think Glorfindel is going to eat the rest of that cheese?

_Man_: Not tonight, anyway.

_Young Elven Lady_ [appropriating _Glorfindel's_ cheese]: Besides, even if it doesn't penetrate, a bodkin point will still apply more force to the orc underneath than a broadhead of equal weight. That's good for internal bleeding, breaking a few ribs perhaps-

_Man_: That's crazy; how in Arda could one arrow-

_Woman_ [seizing _Man's_ arm]: Come away, dearest! Wine and lack of sleep do not improve your eloquence.

[_Woman_ leads _Man_ out of the room. _Saelon_ helps himself to a few more cherries and a small pastry.]

_Saelon_: I am curious as well. How does a bodkin apply more force? I think it might apply more force if it struck at an angle, but can it do that with a straight blow as well?

_Young Elven Lady:_ I'm not sure.

_Saelon_: The problem is, I have only been struck by a few arrows in my lifetime, so I do not have a great deal of experience to draw on in this matter. Let us ask Glorfindel. Glorfindel, wake up, please! [He pokes _Glorfindel_] I have a question.

_Glorfindel_: Unnh.

_Calengolf_: Go to sleep, thou unnatural creature!

_Saelon_: There is nothing unnatural about me being wide awake at this time. I have not been attempting to drown myself in wine, like some persons I could mention.

_Calengolf_: And why not? Wine is an excellent aid to rest and good digestion. I never thought I would hear myself say this again, but: Have some wine, Saelon.

_Saelon_: I am in strict training right now, for a long and-

_Calengolf_: "I am in strict training" he says, while cramming yet another pastry into his devouring jaws.

_Saelon_ [trying to speak with his devouring jaws full of crumbs]: But I must keep up my strength!

_Calengolf_: You're hopeless- but in a good way, I think.

[_Calengolf_ falls asleep in his chair. While the curtain falls, _Saelon_ is watching with rapt attention as _Young Elven Lady_ cheerfully talks about gruesome injuries and demonstrates the penetrating action of a war-arrow by poking her thumb through a piece of bread.]


	9. Chapter Five, Part One: Improvise

Chapter Five

Part One: Improvise

At last, we had found the goblin army! One of the goblin armies, anyway. This one had come from Mt. Gundabad and was marching east at great speed, heading either towards King Thranduil's city in Mirkwood, or else towards Erebor. We were following after them at even greater speed, less than a day behind. While our army was not large enough to engage them in open battle, we hoped to slow them down, break their morale, and lessen their numbers. Ours was not the only battle being fought. To the south, great clouds of smoke hung over Mirkwood; whenever Calengolf noticed this, he pronounced elaborate and fearsome curses upon the orcs of Sauron.

For the week or so the scouts had been very busy, to say the least, tracking the movements of the enemy and looking for ambushes. Our scout team was assigned the twisting valleys and foothills of the Ered Mithrim. We were moving so fast that we probably would have "discovered" an ambush only by falling into it, and our commanders would have known that something was wrong when none of us came back, but when Karl mentioned that, Celegion informed him that when he wanted Karl's opinion, he would ask for it.

Because of our long journeys, hard work, and lack of sleep, we elves only managed to keep going by consuming large quantities of waybread and various healing drinks. **(Ed****. ****Ah**** . . . ****yes****. ****Healing ****drinks****. ****Very ****helpful****.)** The Men were not permitted to have waybread, so it was quite a mystery how they managed to keep up. One day I asked Aldrid about it.

"Pride," he said. "That's what keeps us going. If you all collapsed in a heap, me and Karl would stagger on five more yards just to show we could, make a few insulting remarks, and then collapse in a heap." **(Ed****. ****And ****I ****think ****he ****and ****Karl ****pilfered ****some ****of ****the ****waybread**) Somehow, he seemed to find time for growing, and was about an inch taller than he was when he first joined us.

It seems to me that when the elven-kings led their people on the great march to the western shores of Middle-earth in the first days of the elves, they suffered from their inexperience. It is recorded that great numbers of their people were separated from their kinsmen, either through fear of the journey ahead or admiration for the fair lands they passed. I now believe that the kings erred by not setting a fast enough pace. Their people were not old, and had not yet grown weary of life, so I doubt that they would have fallen behind through exhaustion. But if they had been traveling under forced-march conditions, they would have had much less time to wander off and become enamored of the forests and streams of Beleriand. We certainly had no time for side-trips. **(Ed****. ****It ****is ****my ****opinion ****that ****the ****individual ****who ****wrote ****this ****will ****one ****day ****become ****lord ****of ****Imladris****, ****if ****only ****through ****process ****of ****elimination****. ****Therefore ****tremble ****in ****fear****! ****For ****one ****day ****you ****may ****yet ****see ****Saelon ****Erestorion****, ****with ****the ****last ****remnant ****of ****the ****Eldar****, ****pulling ****two ****Silvan ****elves ****by ****the ****shirt ****collars ****and ****shouting****, "****Swiftly ****now****, ****and ****stop ****gazing ****at ****those ****trees****! ****We ****have ****a ****ship ****to ****meet****."**)

Did I mention that it was snowing? On the other hand, that made tracking easier, and it was not unbearably cold. Aldrid was trying to grow a beard to keep his face warm.

Two hours or so before sunrise, we trudged back into camp after another foray. "Camp" is used here in the literary sense, as our tents and most of our other equipment had been left behind by the rapid pace of our advance, and all the soldiers were unwilling to take the time to do anything besides light a few fires and unroll their blankets. We were met by our commander, who _never_ seemed to sleep.

"Is there anything to report?"

"Nothing that you couldn't have predicted," said Celegion.

"I see one of you managed to shoot a moose. Good work."

"Thank you, only we strangled it. **(****Ed****. ****He****'****s ****not ****joking****.)** How could you tell? Wait, no, don't tell me - the large head staring mournfully out of Saelon's pack."

The commander chuckled. "You strangled it? I won't ask. Take it to that fire over there. Our cooks are incapable of feeling joy or gladness these days, but such a gift should make them somewhat less belligerent than usual. Then get some rest; we leave in an hour."

I seemed to hear some sort of commotion just as I went to sleep, but it did not sound like the Dagor Dagorath was upon us so I ignored it and went to sleep, dreaming that I was back in Master Cúnir's shop. In my dream, I accidentally cut his hand with a chisel, at which point he turned into a raging dragon and pursued me all through Imladris, blowing fire and shouting at me to wake up. No, that was Celegion. The shouting, that is; Celegion was not blowing fire, though his breath left an impressive cloud of steam in the cold morning air.

"Up," he said without much enthusiasm. "Scout meeting."

I lay there with my eyes shut. "Through clever use of my gift of foresight, I shall save you the trouble of attending. Our commander needs a few elves to run down to Osgiliath, dredge up the lost Palantír, take a look in it to see what the weather is like in Far Harad, and run back to tell him. And we shall volunteer for it, somehow, since it is our fate to-"

"You may rest assured that I will not volunteer us for anything, Erestorion. I am not insane."

"That is debatable, seeing as you are going through all of this simply to impress a lady."

"You joined without having a lady to impress - now who's the insane one?"

I stretched and looked around the camp. "Morgoth's hammer! It is still night-time!"

"Not quite. I have sent Thandor to wake up Karl and Aldrid, since he knows fewer Westron profanities than we do."

"Did you send him to further his education in this respect, or because his sensibilities would be less offended?"

"Both. Edrahil has gone to see if he can extort any waybread out of the cooks, but he thinks that our supply is exhausted and we have not been told in order to keep morale up."

I rummaged through a large bag that was lying near my pack-horse. "I have some food in with my luggage." Pulling out three small clay jars, I handed one to him.

He stood there weighing it in his hands. "Unless we are going to eat iron or stone, I don't see what you put in here to make it so heavy."

"Have no fear," I told him. "It is edible. **(****Ed****. ****Technically****, ****yes ****it ****is****. ****It ****is ****a ****sort ****of ****flat****, ****nourishing ****piece ****of ****unknown ****substance**** [****resembling ****wood****] ****which ****he ****makes ****in ****quantity****, ****then ****piles ****into ****a ****jar****, ****then ****puts ****the ****lid ****on ****the ****top ****of ****the ****pile****, ****then ****jumps ****up ****and ****down ****on ****the ****lid ****until ****the ****pile ****is ****smashed ****enough ****that ****he ****can ****tie ****the ****lid ****down ****and ****seal ****it ****with ****wax****. ****It ****is ****rather ****tasteless****, ****feels ****like ****a ****brick ****in ****the ****stomach****, ****and ****requires ****a ****good ****set ****of ****teeth ****to ****pry ****it ****apart**** – ****but ****it ****is ****edible****.)** I made it myself, before leaving Imladris."

Only three teams were at the meeting, since the others were out on duty. Our commander stood up. "Soldiers, we received a messenger last night who told us that there is a nearby settlement under siege by goblins. Since we are less than two hours behind the enemy, I cannot spare a large force. Therefore, I would ask if any of you will volunteer to join the defense of this town." Group One's dwarf raised his hand, and two members of Group Five volunteered. I checked our own group.

Celegion had raised his hand, despite his earlier promise. Edrahil and his brother had raised their hands. I had naturally raised my hand, and when Calengolf saw that the rest of us had volunteered, he did so as well. Karl and Aldrid were asleep, but we raised their hands for them.

Our commander smiled but, while I am not very perceptive, I think that his mirth was mixed with sorrow. "What would we do without Group Four? Follow me, please - not you three from the other groups, I want to keep you with your teams."

We arrived at his "office," composed of a small scattering of bags, saddles, and other equipment, where he briefed us more completely. "This settlement you are going to defend is a dwarven mining town with an unpronounceable-"

Celegion interrupted him. "When I volunteered, I was not aware that it was a dwarven town."

"No. You were not. You were not aware that these dwarves have bravely fought the goblins and other evils of Angmar for hundreds of years. You were not aware that their wives and children are also trapped with them. And yet you volunteered. I am very proud of you for it; do not give me any cause to repent of my pride."

Celegion wisely backed down.

"Good. I would have like to send their messenger back with you, but he is badly wounded and may not survive. Our maps disagree about the exact location of this town - which you should call 'Calsandar' - but if you find the goblins, you will find the town. Any questions?"

"What about food?" Karl asked.

"Good question. I am giving you the last of our waybread." With due ceremony, he handed us a _small_ bag.

After looking inside, Thandor asked, "Is it supposed to be that odd color?" but was told not to worry, it had just gotten a bit damp.

"You should carry as much regular food as possible, since the dwarves are under siege, and if you run out of food they might not give you any of theirs. But before you pack your supplies, you may want to obtain some additional armor from the baggage-master; this will not be the warfare of sudden raids and surprises that you are accustomed to. Don't carry too much weight, though. The terrain might be passable enough for pack-horses, but there will not be any grass for them up in the hills, so I wouldn't recommend that you bring any horses. I am aware that the instructions I have just given you are contradictory, so find the best balance."

"Understood," Celegion said. "If the town is under siege, how are we to gain entrance?"

"I have no idea. However, all the reports I have heard of your team say that you are good at improvising."

"Improvising? That's Saelon's job. Saelon, find us a way of getting in that doesn't involve any of us getting killed or permanently maimed."

At least he was taking me seriously. "Is this town underground, perhaps?"

"Probably," our commander said, "but I hope you all understand that it is too late to back out of this."

Aldrid pinned him with a ferocious stare. "We wouldn't even if you ordered us to!"

"That is why I was hoping your group would volunteer."

Calengolf raised his hand. "How large is the town?"

"I have no idea how large it is, but I am told that it is home to about one hundred sixty dwarves. Since these are dwarves we are talking about, you can assume that at least one hundred and fifty of them are trained warriors. They estimate that they are besieged by around four hundred and fifty goblins, with maybe a few trolls and a small complement of wargs. Is that it?" A series of nods indicated that it was.

"Now, I have one final piece of advice. If it is at all possible, try to keep an escape route open at all times. I would not have you hang back from the fighting as long as there is a chance of holding the town. However, if all is lost, you must try to save both your own lives and the lives of as many others as you can. Only a fool or an elf who has nothing to live for refuses to retreat when the battle is lost. Even Glorfindel has fled more than once from a lost battle."

Something was bothering me. "If, by the grace of the Valar, we manage to gain entrance to this underground town, which is under siege, how are we supposed to get out again if everything goes wrong?"

"Improvise," he said, as if it were a magical incantation. "Now it appears that my orderlies are trying to pack away my office with me still in it, so I suspect it is time for us to go. May the Valar guide you, and if you do not return, I shall tell your families that you fell fighting in a good cause."

I wished that he had not said that, since we had been acting under the assumption that we were invincible. I am aware that overconfidence can be dangerous. However, the knowledge that I might die is unlikely to make me any more cautious than I usually am, so I would rather remain oblivious.

As we went to collect our armor, many of my comrades seemed to be thinking the same thoughts that I was. Celegion spent some time in conversation with one of the officers, and gave him something for safe-keeping. Aldrid said that he did not fear death, but would rather die in his own country. That degree of sentiment from Aldrid was unusual, especially since he completely sober at the time. Calengolf was the only one of us who seemed eager to go. He handed in his axe for a rather larger one, and while the rest of us were issued armor he tested the swing of his new weapon while humming war songs.

Then we received our supply packs, which were heavy enough to squelch even Calengolf's enthusiasm. Mine was even heavier because of my home-made trail rations **(Ed. Some winter's night, he will accidentally drop one of his jars off a cliff or something, and it will plunge all the way through the earth into the caverns below, and whack Arien on the head, and the sun will not rise in the morning. And Arwen will look out her window and scream, "Saelon! What have you done with the sun?" because now that Morgoth is imprisoned, Saelon is just about the only person capable of darkening the world single-handedly)**, but ever since the disastrous Incident with Estel I had been practicing my long distance running, with or without heavy loads.

So we set out to the north, each of us looking like a Beleg Cuthalion loaded to the ears with supplies for the hungry men of Amon Rudh. Actually, Aldrid did not look much like Beleg, he looked more like a dwarf carrying loads for a wager, but that is beside the point.

I am proud to say that we now maintained much more disciplined behavior on the march. There was no shouting, arguing, or language problems. Well, Aldrid still had a language problem at times, but of an entirely different sort. To clarify, we all spoke Westron very well.

There is not much to say about most of that journey. If my readers desire to know more about it, they are advised to try a few long journeys on foot for themselves. The morning sun shone through the smoke from burning Mirkwood, tinting the world blood-red. On several occasions we saw small areas of pointless destruction which showed that goblins had been through the area, but we saw no sign of current goblin occupation. However, that did not necessarily mean that there were no goblins watching for us, so we proceeded cautiously.


	10. Chapter Five, Part Two: Impenetrable

Chapter Five

Part Two: Impenetrable

We sighted Calsandar shortly after sunrise on a chilly late-winter morning. A short rectangular fortress, built of grey granite, was perched on a hilltop directly against the edge of a cliff. Below the fort, the cliffside was blasted and scoured, leading us to conclude that it contained a concealed dwarf-door that the goblins were trying to breach.

Scattered in front of the cliffside was a small collection of scorched and blackened shelters. As we watched, a small object was hurled out of the fort. It left a thin trail of smoke as it fell. When it smashed on top of one the shelters, there was a bright flash and a loud roaring sound, and the structure's roof caught fire. Goblins poured out to throw buckets of sand on the burning roof. A volley of arrows sped down from the fort, killing two goblins before the others could extinguish the fire and take cover again. The fort's defenders jeered derisively, but a short while later, large openings appeared in the roofs of two other buildings, and faster than the eye could follow two giant arrows leaped up to smash against the fort. Now it was the goblins' turn to cheer as small bits of stone flew in all directions.

The siege went on in this inconclusive fashion for the rest of the day. Other goblins were trying to pry stones out of the side of the fortress, but if my readers have never tried to disassemble a dwarven fortress using hand tools, I shall save them the trouble by telling them that it is impossible. A collection of nasty-looking spikes and other devices had so far deterred the goblins from climbing on top of the fort; even if they had, I suspect that they would have been no closer to getting in.

We held a council of war shortly before dinner time. Edrahil spoke first. "If that is the worst the goblins can do, the dwarves can most likely hold out for months without our assistance."

Karl shook his head. "All the banging and shooting and cheering - I think that's just the goblins' idea of fun. See that pile of dirt there?" He pointed at a small mound on the hilltop, behind and to the left of the fortress. "I've spotted at least three others like it. Seems to me that they're trying to dig their way in."

Celegion turned to me. "Well? Have you improvised anything yet?"

"I think that I have an idea," I explained, "but I will need to inspect the other side of that fortress before I know whether or not it will work."

Celegion eyed me suspiciously. "Does this idea involve the use of catapults at any point?"

"No. I considered that possibility, but the windows are too small."

Once it was dark, we slipped through the goblins sentry line and reached the back of the fortress without very much difficulty. The goblins were not keeping a very close watch on the building's sides and rear because there were no visible doors or windows on those three sides. Since it was a dwarven fortress, there probably were hidden entrances, but they would be useless for our purposes.

Calengolf climbed up to the roof, since he was from Mirkwood and knew the most about climbing, and then he passed a rope back down to us. We went up one at a time, as quietly as possible. Getting Karl up proved rather difficult, as he was not a gifted climber, but he finally succeeded after taking off his armor to be hauled up separately. The entire operation took more than half an hour, but we were able to complete it without attracting the attention of the besiegers or the defenders.

Now came the tricky part. ** (Ed. No, the tricky part was climbing up to the roof.)** The front edge of the roof overhung the windows by at least eight feet, and it had a short rampart on it. Thandor tied a hangman's noose in a long piece of rope, and then Edrahil and I dangled him over the edge by his ankles, while he attempted to throw his noose over a sharp spur of masonry next to a window where the wall had been fractured by bombardment.** (Ed. Aldrid wanted to do it himself, but we staved him off by telling him that it was elven rope and Men just couldn't get the same results with it. That did the job, because Aldrid pretends to be afraid of magic.)** He tried without success for around five minutes, so we pulled him up to let the blood drain from his head.

"It is not easy throwing something accurately when one is upside-down," he said. "But I think I can do it with a bit more practice." So he went over the edge again, and soon reported his success.

Celegion frowned. "I like this plan less and less every minute."

"Then let's hurry up," Karl said drily.

"No, I'm serious. The dwarves have no idea that we are coming, and if they see me trying to climb through their windows in the middle of the night, they will certainly shoot me. And if we all get through without being detected, then they will awake to find seven strangers in the middle of their fortress. Dwarves are not usually very happy when this happens!"

"When you climb through their windows?" I said. "I thought I was doing that part."

"No. As the leader, if anything incredibly dangerous has to be done, it's my job to do it."

Calengolf intervened. "Celegion, there's something you don't understand. If this were a merely a dangerous feat of heroics, you would indeed be the right elf for the job, but this is actually a dangerous and stupid feat of heroics. Saelon has an absolutely unparalleled ability to survive such experiences because Manwe and Elbereth think he's fun to watch." The others readily agreed with him. We stretched the rope tight and tied it securely to the battlements on the other side of the roof.

Holding tightly to the rope, I eased over the parapet and worked my way down. Then came the other tricky part **(Ed. The other tricky part, with the first tricky part being climbing up to the roof)**. Slowly, I progressed hand over hand underneath the overhang, with nothing below me but a long dark drop and several hundred unsuspecting goblins. When I came close enough to the window, I put my feet through - and stubbed my toes on something very solid.

Blast. There was some sort of metal shutter completely blocking the window. This had not entered into my calculations, but I was not about to go back, so I began banging gently on the shutter with my foot. After a few eternities, the shutter eased open a few inches, and someone thrust a spear out and prodded my liver with it (of course, I had left my armor on the roof).

A gruff voice spoke up. "Who are you, and what in the unspeakable name of Angband's cesspit are you doing out there?"

"We are from Imladris," I replied, "and we are here to help."

The shutter squeaked open a few more inches. It was completely dark inside, so that the defenders would not be silhouetted against the windows, but as far as I could tell the dwarf's countenance seemed to bear the marks of complete bewilderment. I doubt that he could see the slender elven-rope from which I hung, and so he thought that I had simply floated there. "I've got to go talk to the Chief," he said.

"Are you at least going to let me in first?"

"No."

"Do you seriously intend to leave me dangling here until your Chief gives his approval?"

"Yes." With that he closed the shutter again. My arms were beginning to tire, so I pulled my legs up and wrapped them around the rope as well, and hung there like a piece of washing. I heard shouting from below. When I turned my head to look, I saw goblins lighting fire-arrows. Double blast.

So for the next few minutes, I hung there while the goblins shot fire-arrows at me and my comrades on the roof shot ordinary arrows down at the goblins. "Ordinary arrows" should be interpreted as "ordinary elvish arrows", which glow slightly in the dark and can actually inflict burns on goblins, so they are not in fact very different from fire-arrows. The goblins soon found that conducting an archery duel with elves around one hundred feet above them was not a very healthy form of exercise, and they retreated back into their shelters.

The shutter opened again. "Chief says you can come in, but if you show any treachery you will be thrown out the same way you came."

"Thank you," I replied. "You shall not have cause to regret your hospitality." I climbed in, followed by Thandor, Aldrid, Calengolf, and Karl. Celegion and Edrahil stayed up on the roof to lower our supplies and armor over the edge where we could snag the ropes with a borrowed halberd and pull them in. This exercise became rather more exciting when the goblins began to fire their catapults again. I do not think that they could see us very well, but their machines of war were still aimed at the windows after the day's bombardment. While we were working, a number of sleepy-eyed dwarves trudged up the stairs from below, in order to stare at us as if we were some sort of traveling entertainment.

"They're on the roof!" Celegion shouted suddenly **(Ed. Which shows that goblins are excellent climbers)**. The last bundle came over the edge as metal rattled on stone and a goblin screamed in pain. As soon as we had pulled it in, Celegion shouted, "Now!" and Edrahil came down the rope, going much faster than was safe. After a blast of Serious Magic that shook the building, Celegion came over the edge so fast that he was held up behind Edrahil, who was having trouble getting inside without losing his grip. Without needing to speak a word, we acted; Karl held the back of my shirt while I leaned out and pulled Edrahil in.

Just as we had him the goblins cut the rope up on the rooftop. Celegion fell about five feet and smashed into the rock, but somehow he held onto the rope, and Calengolf held the other end to keep it anchored on the spur. Celegion climbed in, and the dwarves slammed the window shut.

The dwarves were gathering around to congratulate us or stare at us or covet our luggage, but Celegion shoved through the crowd. "Where are my healing supplies?" he shouted. "Edrahil's hurt!" Aldrid handed them to him.

Edrahil was wounded in his back, so Karl and I laid him out on his stomach and cleared a space around him. His face was locked in a pained grimace, but he seemed to cheer up slightly when he saw his brother. "Don't panic," he gasped. "It will take a lot more than this to kill me - though it hurts like anything."

Since he was not bleeding very much, we carried him down the stairs. None of us, I think, had ever been in a dwarven mine before, and we were all surprised to find out how truly dark it was inside. Naturally one would suspect that it would be dark underground, especially at night, but this was about as dark as a cloudy night with no moon or stars.

We entered what appeared to be a large central chamber, lit only with a few very dim red lights. Small groups of dwarves sat amid piles of bedding, furniture, and other possessions. After we set Edrahil down under one of the lights, Celegion delegated Calengolf to "explain things" to the dwarves **(Ed. This made climbing up to the roof look easy)**, while he treated Edrahil and the rest of us hauled things down the stairs.

The last thing I remember of that night is collapsing on a pile of dirty clothing which looked marginally softer than the stone floor. Celegion was still awake, trying to extract a javelin-head from Edrahil's back without damaging him any more in the process. Thandor had battled against sleep and lost decisively. I was reluctant to go to sleep while Edrahil was still in danger, but my excuse was that I was fated to fall asleep, and it is not given to the Eldar to overcome fate. At least not when they are exhausted, anyway.


	11. Chapter Six: Calsandar

_Author's disclaimer: It has come to my attention that some things about Saelon's childhood may be inconsistent with Tolkien's ideas of elven children. Specifically, it seems that elves mature mentally at a very early age but do not reach their full adult size until they are around fifty years old. That is unfortunate. I have read Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, Unfinished Tales, the Books of Lost Tales, the Lays of Beleriand, and at least one other volume of the History of Middle-earth, but I had not read Morgoth's Ring until very recently, which is apparently the primary source of information on elven children. _

_Hopefully, if there are any well-read Tolkien purists who read the Memoirs, they will suspend disbelief for the few moments it takes to enjoy this story. Perhaps Saelon simply grew faster than most elven children, which might explain why everyone is so surprised and alarmed when they find out how young he is. It would also explain his perpetual hunger and tendencies towards clumsiness. I am not going to go back and retroactively change things._

_Also, I am not 100% certain that Arwen was living in Rivendell during all of Saelon's childhood, but that is not very important._

* * *

><p>I woke up the next morning feeling exhausted, but pleased that we were no longer in danger. Actually, I have no way of knowing when I woke up, because the lights were still as dim as before. Since I was absolutely famished, I surmised that it was some time in the afternoon. <strong>(Ed. Saelon's reasoning is incorrect here. The fact that he is absolutely famished is not strong evidence that any large amount of time has passed since he last ate.)<strong> I got up and opened my pack. There was no food in it.

Had I opened my pack and found a fully-armed goblin inside, I would have been mildly dismayed. This, however, ranked as a full-scale disaster. I shook Karl awake. "Where are our provisions? Mine have vanished!"

Karl gave me the evil eye. "Why did you have to wake me up for that? Your provisions have been steadily vanishing for the entire journey."

"No, I swear I had more than a week's worth of food in that pack, and it is gone now!"

Karl rolled over and checked inside his bag. Suddenly his jaw dropped. "Mine's gone too!" He looked murderously at the nearest dwarves. "I'll bet they took it."

I fear I began to panic at this point. Thandor and Aldrid had been awakened by the noise, and they tried to restrain Karl from charging the dwarves while I frantically searched the rest of our luggage. There was no food anywhere.

Calengolf finally awoke. He looked at me, puzzled by my behavior. "What is going on?"

"Have you seen the food?" I asked. **(Ed. "Asked" should be interpreted as "screamed in my face.")** "I can't find it anywhere!"

His reply was careful and precise, made in the tone that I refer to as "The Voice of Reason." "The food has been added to the common supply. We will receive our rations at dinner time. It would have been . . . undiplomatic, not to mention unwise, for us to attempt to withhold our supplies for our own use."

"So in other words, they took our supplies," Karl said.

"No, I offered them our supplies. There is an important difference."

Now Karl gave Calengolf the evil eye. Aldrid found Celegion and woke him up. "Calengolf's given the dwarves all our food."

"That was the plan, actually. I knew someone needed to make that offer, but I did not think I could manage to humble myself in that fashion. So I had him do it."

Calengolf smirked grimly. "Be of good cheer, Saelon. I was unable to persuade them that your personal rations were in fact edible, so those are still with us. We shall not starve; we may lose all our teeth, however."

The frustrating thing about elves like Celegion is that they can make the wrong decision, but make it sound like the prudent and reasonable thing to do. I am still unsure how he managed to persuade Calengolf. **(Ed. He took me on a brief tour through the dwarven armory.)**

* * *

><p>Calengolf, "Sergeant Fuzzyface" (Aldrid) , myself, and three dwarves were on patrol, marching through a dark and menacing tunnel which wound back and forth as it plunged downwards into the earth. <strong>(Ed. Celegion and I had fun coming up with nicknames for the patrol. Karl was "Captain Furryface." I shall never understand beards.)<strong> Celegion was back with Edrahil, who was recovering well, while Karl and Thandor were helping the dwarves do something mysterious that involved large wooden beams, load calculations, and much swearing. Most of their discussions also seemed to involve some kind of signs. I have no idea why they would be putting up signs, since the dwarves already knew their way around, and we did not wish the goblins to know the tunnel layout, but I assumed that they knew what they were doing.

The dwarves did not think that the goblins would break through for at least a few more days, but they were taking no chances. Chief Vidar had ordered that all outlying tunnels be evacuated and that all the dwarves take up residence in the main entrance hall and the chambers directly adjoining it. They had not planned to include us in the mine patrols, but I insisted on coming because I wished to become more familiar with the layout of the mine before we were required to fight in it.

Aldrid and I were disputing with the patrol leader over the precise definition of the Westron word "red". The dwarf was carrying a small red lantern, which seemed to provide enough light for the dwarves to navigate easily, but was inadequate for the rest of us. When we criticized his lantern, he insisted that it was just fine and that the problem lay with our poor night vision. Aldrid said that in his experience elves had excellent night vision, which caused the dwarf to make the rather curious assertion that elves and humans could not see the color red.

Aldrid was getting quite annoyed. "Of course we can see red! Your stupid lantern shines red light, and we can see it, just not very well because it's so dim."

"Dim? This lantern has been in my family for generations; do you insult our craftsmanship? The problem certainly lies with your inability to see red."

Aldrid was "seeing red" in a different sense entirely. "If we can't see red, then how can we even see our own blood?"

"Blood's not red," the dwarf responded confidently. "It's orange."

"Dwarf blood, maybe."

"No, human blood is orange."

"Look here, dwarf! I'm a human; don't go telling me what color my blood is."

"With regards to the color of your blood, young upstart, a picture would be worth a thousand words in this case. Shorten down," said the dwarf. I could not understand how his last statement followed from what he had said before. As I lay there on the floor, I pondered the possible meanings of his statement. Did he think that Aldrid's pride stood too tall? A distant and indistinct voice tried to break into my musings, but I ignored it.

Another abstract philosophical question occurred to me. Why was I lying on the floor? And why did my head hurt? "What happened?" I mumbled as my eyes opened.

Calengolf was sitting next to me, and he seemed quite concerned. "You just ran into the language barrier," he said. "And you've got rather a lot of orange blood all over your face."

Shorten down. Suddenly it almost made sense. "Next time, you walk in front," I said.

"Sorry Saelon, but your skull is much thicker than mine. I name you the official Ceiling Finder for our war-party; doesn't that make you feel all shiny inside?"

"Not at all."

* * *

><p>In a previous chapter, I pondered the phenomenon of worry among elves, and how it seems to consist of an abstract feeling of something being not quite right. I was expecting that dwarves would worry in a different fashion, but to my surprise they worry in much the same way. Of course, the two peoples react to worry differently. Elves hold councils, study books of history, exchange messages with their neighbors, and petition Elbereth for aid. Dwarves construct horrifying booby traps, argue with each other about what to do, examine their armor for insignificant defects, stockpile a truly unreasonable amount of weaponry, and call upon Aule to give them strength. But they have other things in common, such as keeping track of their family's whereabouts, and, as we found out, being suspicious of outsiders. I have seen worried elves scurrying around in the forest looking for signs of tree parasites, or in a library looking for book-worms, and they are much like worried dwarves scurrying around in their tunnels listening for goblin pick-axes.<p>

But enough of that. I had something far more interesting than philosophy to occupy my time. I had discovered a dwarven weapon known as the crossbow. Now some of my readers might not share my fascination with weaponry, but even the least warlike person in Arda must admit that there is something deeply satisfying about crossbows. Once an archer pulls back the string, it will stay there until he pulls a little metal piece to release it. When he does this, there is a gratifying "thwang!" and the arrow goes on its way. I desire very strongly to make one. **(Ed. Saelon is so completely Noldor that he sometimes frightens me.)**

* * *

><p>The days and nights blended into each other, since we were underground and all the windows were blocked up. For nearly a fortnight the dwarves and goblins did strange things in their tunnels. From what I could understand it seemed to be like the dodging and feinting at the beginning of a sword duel; the real war would come soon enough, but one side or the other would have the advantage based on what was happening now. It was still somewhat unpleasant the way the dwarves treated us as if our primary goal in life was to steal their food, small change, and children, in that order. However, it was definitely an improvement from the early days, when they felt that even their furniture and dirty laundry was not safe in our presence.<p>

As I had nothing better to do, I spent much of my time repeatedly sneaking into the dwarven workshops and repeatedly being thrown out again. This persistence paid off after about a week when one of them, named Sindri, woke me up in what was presumably the early morning. "We have come to a decision," he said gruffly. "I am to show you a few of the less secret techniques of my people, and you will stop being such a pest."

* * *

><p>That night, while we were munching our sparse rations and arguing about whether Calengolf should cut his hair short, a dwarf hurried across the room to us. "Get ready," he said in a undertone. "Things are moving faster than expected."<p>

"Is that good or bad?" Aldrid asked, but the dwarf had already moved on. By now, we knew enough of battle that we immediately began to arm ourselves, deferring our curiosity to a more opportune moment. Celegion blundered about accosting various dwarves, trying to determine who was currently in charge. As we prepared, all around us we heard the dull scrape of chain mail, the suppressed murmuring of dwarven voices, and the trampling of iron-shod feet on stone paving. Finally Celegion returned with a dwarf captain in tow.

The newcomer motioned us into the back of a disorderly column which was forming across the chamber. As we took our places, he explained the situation. "Those foul goblins have been getting closer to our tunnels with several of those shafts they're sinking. Normally we would just collapse the threatened areas, but this lot seem to know our tunnels as well as we do. They're going after several main hallways-". The dwarf observed that our previous state of silence had turned into a state of delicate silence.

"Oh, we don't think it was you who told them," he said. "Take my word upon it, we considered that possibility, but we cannot think of how you could have passed a message out of here. Besides, you get lost so often that if the goblins are following your directions, our victory is assured."

Celegion smiled grimly. "So is incompetence the only way to gain the trust of the dwarves?"

"No. There are other ways. Most of them, however, involve shedding of much blood, both the newcomer's and others'."

Without any discernible command, the column began to move forward at a slow walk. I was not entirely sure what the marching dwarves resembled. I realized at this time that most of my mental expectations of dwarven behavior were formed by taking the average of men and goblins, so I anticipated the dwarves to swarm around wildly like ants defending an overturned colony. Instead, they moved with definite purpose, slow and unified, like the many feet of an unseen monster. In the long dark stretches between wall-lamps, all distinguishing traits vanished behind the steel livery of the dwarven race.

Also, there were five incongruous elves and two Secondborn. None of these seven looked as if they belonged there, and I do not think that most of them felt that way either. Aldrid was always ready for a battle, though, and Calengolf as a member of the Avari was no stranger to terrors in the darkness. It occurs to me as I write this that I have not the slightest idea how old Calengolf is. **(Ed. The answer to that question depends upon the age of the lady who is asking.)**

Deferred curiosity not being our collective strong point, several of us began to pester our guide. "Could we not merely obstruct everything except the main chamber, and hold that with all our forces?" said Thandor.

The soldier shook his head. "It might sound like a good idea, but due to the nature of underground warfare we have to hold a fairly large perimeter. Let them get too close and they'll find a way to drop our own roof on us, fill our rooms with water, force smoke in until we choke – any number of unpleasant and imaginative methods. Most of which they learned from us. If we lost control of the hallways they're threatening, we'd lose almost all the mine, and I doubt we'd last a week more."

"So we march to oppose them at their point of entry?"

"Basically, yes. However, if we waited for them to set the tempo of this dance, we'd start it off wrong-footed. They are about two days' work from breaking in, except we have secretly counter-mined against one of their shafts and we can tear it open any time we want to. Yes, we know you're grievously insulted that we didn't tell you about this plan already. Deal with it. Our goal is to even the odds and buy time. We're going to go in quietly at first, then break through, then hit them like a birth-day stone, then cave in their shaft as much as we can, then get out. Understand?"

Calengolf raised his hand politely. "What, exactly, is a birth-day stone?"

"Something that you hit very hard on your birth-day, using the biggest hammer you can beg, borrow, or steal from your extended family."

"That makes perfect sense, thank you."

By now the marching column was moving up a steep staircase that wound alongside a long, steeply sloping passage. My sense of direction is not infallible underground, but I had the impression that we were slightly above the level of the gate.

"Hush now," said our guide. "We're getting close." The tunnel disappeared into a pitch-black cave, and we went with it. Someone whispered an order to halt, then a few very dim red lamps flickered as dwarven line-officers began moving through our force, arranging us into an attack formation. It seemed that we were in the dwarven counter-mine, as the walls were rough-hewn and bits of freshly crushed rock were still strewn over the uneven floor. Taking stock of my surroundings, I concluded that my archery skills would not be of much use, so I determined to rely upon my sword.

Thandor was sitting on a rock, bent forward and clutching his knees, shaking. I had seen him react badly to impending battle before, but this was worse, despite his increased experience. Looking around, I saw that Edrahil and Celegion were discussing tactics with dwarves, so after a long moment of indecision I sat down next to Thandor.

I do not consider myself wise in the ways of comforting the distressed. For a while, I just sat there, and finally at a loss for words I asked, "What is the matter?"

Thandor continued to stare at the floor as he considered my question. Finally he spoke. "Something . . . This is a trap, and we are blind, heedless mice rushing into it."

This alarmed me quite seriously. If I have learned anything of profit through my limited study of elven history, it is that forebodings of disaster are nearly always justified. "Have you seen this by foresight?" I asked.

"How would I know what it is like to foresee my own death? I see nothing! Only blackness ahead of me; does that mean that I have no future to see?"

"Well," I said, "when we set out, we all presumably felt that this cause was worthy enough to sacrifice our lives for."

"That is dark counsel for a dark hour! You are no help." Thandor sat up, indignation filling him with some semblance of vitality. But then, just as suddenly, his face quieted and he smiled weakly. "Actually, you are, now that I think about it again. Seeing you ready to hurl yourself against goblin spears deep underground on some wild errantry causes me to wonder if you have discovered something that I know not."

Karl wedged himself between us and threw a mail-clad arm over each of our shoulders. "Excuse me? Did I hear that correctly? You actually think that this mad-man here – this mad-elf, I should say – has finally managed to wedge a profound thought between his ears?"

Thandor leaned back against Karl, giggling in a most undignified fashion. "Perhaps not, but I am forced to conclude that Alachon's madness is contagious, for I feel in my heart a desire to join him." **(Ed. "Alachon" is a nickname acquired by Saelon over the course of our adventures. For our Westron-speaking readers who actually care about such things, it means, "Brother with Fiery Spirit." For our Westron-speaking readers who don't care, it means "Pumpkin Head.")**

Finally, the dwarves were in battle order. Our party was directed to the right flank, and given a stern whispered lecture about how to distinguish dwarves from goblins in the dark. I held my weapon with the flat pressed against my scale breastplate, lest I impale anyone I was not supposed to. Celegion counted off all of us on his fingers and, satisfied we were all present, drew us into a huddle to give us our last-minute instructions.

Silence fell. The walls of the cave seemed to close in to smother us. Throughout the cave, all that could be heard was the gentle whooshing sound made by a small war-band of armored dwarves wedged into a tiny underground chamber and all trying to breathe the same hot stale air without fainting. Then, without warning, there came a loud roaring and grinding sound as a huge barrel rolled into the room with unstoppable speed, racing through an opening in the ranks straight towards the far wall.

According to instructions, I closed my eyes, stopped my ears, and counted. At "two", a mighty crashing sound penetrated through my helmet and skull to my ears, and the floor shuddered as the barrel smashed through the thin barrier wall separating us from the goblins. At "three", a blaze of light illuminated the inside of my eyelids redly, followed by a wave of searing heat at "four". I received the full force of this as I had insisted upon standing in the front ranks. At "seven", the light died out, though the heat remained. At "eight", someone slammed into me from behind and hurled me face-first onto the floor, leading me to conclude that either Aldrid counts to ten much faster than I do, or he just could not contain his excitement. From "nine" to "fourteen" (though it seemed much longer) I was trampled upon, and then I lurched to my feet and plunged forward after the rest of my comrades.


	12. Interlude: Balrog Contingency Plan

**Interlude (Inserted by the editor in order to drive anxious readers insane with apprehension, and put off actual resolution of the conflict until later. Also just because I can.)**

Balrog Contingency Plan

(Can also be applied to trolls, foul spirits of the Dead, unusually large and scary orcs - generally anything that goes bump in the night.)

_The scene: half a dozen dwarves, two men, and five elves sitting around a dimly glowing oven, watching water boil because they have nothing better to do.)_

_Bored Dwarf #1:_ In here, we can hold off anything. This is OUR home, and nobody pushes us around at home!

_Edrahil:_ Anything? Even a Balrog?

_Bored Dwarf #1:_ That's a tough one. Balrogs aren't easy to kill, you know.

_Celegion:_ There is no need to worry about Balrogs. We have a Balrog Contingency Plan prepared in advance.

_Calengolf:_ We do?

_Celegion:_ Yes._ (taking on the manner of a great war-captain)_ If the ancient monstrosity should appear, young Aldrid here shall begin hostilities by belittling its personal appearance, fighting skills, and general masculinity (if it seems to be male), while the rest of us prepare our coordinated assault. Karl will approach it from the front. Thandor will provide covering fire as Edrahil, Erestorion, and myself ambush the Balrog from behind.

On my signal, Edrahil and I will throw Erestorion at the back of the Balrog's head. Provided that we hit the target, he will commence to strangle the Balrog. Edrahil and I will take its legs out, Thandor will blind it with arrows, Karl will aim his spear for its heart, and Aldrid will stab it . . . as high as he can reach.

_Aldrid:_ In the crotch. _(Dwarves chuckle evilly and mentally bestow Dwarven Credibility upon Aldrid.)_

_Celegion:_ Yes, you do that.

_Edrahil:_ It sounds like an excellent plan, most honored commander.

_Karl:_ I hate to be the wet blanket on the fire of your military brilliance-

_Saelon:_ You are among friends, Karl. Admit that you enjoy wet blankitude.

_Karl (ignoring Saelon):_ However, this seems a lot like the Moose Contingency Plan, and field testing would suggest that choking is not the best way to take down something much bigger than yourself.

_Edrahil:_ May I propose a modification? Instead of strangulation, Saelon should despatch the vile spirit by force-feeding it some of his petrified fruitcake.

_Saelon protests that his fruitcake is highly nutritious, but is shouted down by all those present. The amendment passes._

_Calengolf:_ I noticed that I play no part in this otherwise commendable plan.

_Bored Dwarf #2:_ It is said that Balrogs are not overly fond of music.

_Thandor:_ True. That could be either a hindrance, or an opportunity.

_Celegion:_ I am still remembering your ineffective attempt to gently persuade an angry, seventeen-hundred pound bull moose that we "meant it no harm."

_Calengolf:_ It would have worked if Aldrid hadn't been hanging off its hind leg and shouting, "KILL IT! KILL IT! RIP ITS EYES OUT!"

_Aldrid:_ Well, you were all standing around staring at it like old housewives.

_Saelon:_ Except me. I was flying through the air at the time.

_Celegion:_ This time, I suggest a more aggressive strategy. You may play, "Dear Maiden, Dear Maiden, Are You Going to the Fair?" in the key of B minor as loudly and quickly as possible. That will distract it while the real fighters slip around to the rear.

_Bored Dwarf Woman:_ Distraction? I didn't know Balrogs had a weak spot for slim, dark-haired Elves with entirely too much jewellery.

_Calengolf:_ I can do better than a Balrog, thank you very much.

_Edrahil (more seriously):_ I have a feeling that if an actual Balrog came, we would all run. Dwarves, elves, men - we have no ancient heroes, no enchanted weapons.

_Calengolf:_ Alachon would run. Straight towards it. Whenever he is at a boring party, or an endless meeting, I suspect he thinks, "This would be so much more interesting if a Balrog showed up."

_Aldrid:_ Mind reader.

_(Here what was formerly a strategy meeting of sage captains degenerated with startling rapidity into a discussion of whose ancient racial heroes could beat up someone else's ancient racial heroes. Saelon and Thandor began developing a sixteen-man tournament entry list, featuring the likes of Durin the Deathless, Feanor, Hurin Thalion, and other such legendary figures. Calengolf went to bed in disgust once it became apparent that they would remain locked in debate on this subject until the Dagor Dagorath came.)_


	13. Chapter Seven: Blades in the Dark

I discovered that while the ceiling of the goblins' tunnel was about shoulder height for myself, there was such a choking cloud of smoke hovering there that I was forced to stoop down almost in a crawl. Ahead of me, dark figures struggled with each other, half-hidden by the scattered glare of burning embers as the firelight dispersed through the fumes. I marked one warrior who threw his opponent to the ground and hewed at his face several times. The victorious soldier was too short to be any of us except Aldrid, and I knew it was not he because Aldrid fought with a shield, but what about the dwarves?

It is said that necessity is the mother of invention, but I should qualify this proverb by pointing out that when the father of invention is panic, the cross-breed may leave something to be desired. How does one instantly tell a dwarf from a goblin in the darkness, when asking politely is out of the question? Determined to improvise a solution, I lunged upon the unknown soldier and seized hold of his chin, searching for a beard.

Perhaps the only thing that saved me was the fact that the goblin was taken aback by my unorthodox grappling technique. He lurched backward, aiming an off-balance blow that merely bounced off my helmet. When I tried to return the favor he caught hold of my sword hand, but I kicked him solidly in the chest, knocking him to the floor. A nearby dwarf made sure that he did not get up again.

I looked around me for more enemies, but the room was cleared and the din of battle had been replaced by the even louder din of dwarves trying to accomplish a work of destruction in a limited time. Picking up a hammer, I moved to join them, but was told in no uncertain terms that I was not to touch anything.

Celegion came over to me, with blood flowing from a gash down his chin. "Good, that is all of us," he said. "A sharp fight, but we are all still standing. Well, still stooping, anyway – blasted ceiling."

"See how the stones fly!" I burst out excitedly. "I am no longer surprised by the size of most dwarven halls, if their inhabitants can work like this when they put their minds to it. I wonder if it will collapse on our heads?"

"I think you need not worry about that possibility; the thickness of your skull surpasses belief. Since they will not have us help them, let us go over and guard the other end of this hole – though I doubt those little rats will be back for more in the near future." We made our way across to where the others were standing around a narrow, dark stair leading upwards. Several dead goblins were sprawled across the floor, cut down as they fled toward the exit. Out of curiosity, I poked my head into the staircase, but I discovered nothing except a foul smell.

Without warning, a dwarf shouted something and the chaos turned to silence. We looked around us in confusion. Then we heard the dull stroke of a large bell, back in the direction from which we had come; the sound came to us through the ground and into our bones, it seemed, rather than our ears. Again it sounded. A third, and a fourth, and at the fourth stroke the dwarves all burst into action. Tools were hastily crammed back into backpacks, replaced by axes in their owners' hands. One soldier started to step into the passage heading back, but was nearly run down by another dwarf coming the other way.

The newcomer was bent over and could hardly breathe. He straightened up and gasped out something in Khuzdul, then turned and ran back the other way. All the dwarves hastened after him. So great was their rush that they were hindered by each other from passing through the ragged gap left by the barrel's passage.

"What is this rout?" Celegion shouted at them. "Why do you flee from an enemy you cannot see?" None of them paid any heed to him.

"Wait!" said Thandor. "I know what he said. It was 'junction Seven North / Three East'; that is only two chambers from our line of retreat!"

As he finished speaking, the last of the dwarves hurried out, leaving us alone on a battlefield strewn with rubble. Though there were seven of us, we suddenly felt very alone. Some of us edged towards the way back. Others stopped and listened, confused.

Calengolf spoke up. "I feel something in the air."

"Like a gas?" I asked.

"No. It feels like . . . cold, and hatred. It's getting stronger."

"What does that mean?" demanded Alrid.

Calengolf turned and ran for the door. "It means special elf power says GET OUT NOW!"

None of us were in the mood to argue with special elf power. We followed him as fast as we were able. As I climbed over a massive fallen boulder, I turned briefly and observed a warg noiselessly lunging toward me out of the darkness. I barely had time to shout "Gaaaaghh!" (the universal military term for "enemy sighted unexpectedly") and drive my sword at its gaping jaws before its weight struck me and knocked me down.

I rolled to my feet and bent to retrieve my weapon from its body. Karl turned around and shouted "Run!" then threw his spear past me to impale another warg. At least five more sprang past it, forcing me to abandon my sword and flee. As I reached the passage entrance my swiftest pursuer clamped his jaws on my boot. I caught up a stone and smashed in the beast's skull, then hurled it at the rest to drive them back.

Down the long dwarven stair I ran, hearing behind me the sounds of wargs and goblins on the hunt, but I seemed to be pulling ahead; indeed, I soon caught up with the rest of my comrades. We leapt down the last three steps at once and dashed down an extremely dark hall, praying to the Valar that the dwarves had not left any furniture lying about. (**Ed. When Saelon referred to "horrifying death traps" earlier, he was talking about dwarven furniture.) **"Where . . . are . . . the dwarves?" I gasped out between breaths.

"I do not know!" Celegion shouted. "We may have passed the little beggars in the dark."

Calengolf, who was in the lead, slowed down. "Let us stop for a moment and get our bearings." We all came to a halt, trying in vain to penetrate the gloom by force of will. Nearby we could hear the sounds of a battle, but the echoing chambers mocked our attempts to locate it by sound. There was no sign of our pursuers.

I felt my way along the wall until I came to an empty space. "Here is a door," I said.

Celegion's voice came out of the darkness. "Congratulations, Erestorion; I have found two already, in case you are keeping score. Have you found a map to go with it?"

"I found a privy!" said Aldrid, unhelpfully.

"I . . . I think I know where we are," Thandor ventured after a while. "We need to go through that door over there."

"What door?" I asked.

"The one I am pointing to."

"Which one are you pointing to? I cannot see you."

"Come over closer to me so you can see what I am pointing to!"

"But I cannot come closer to you if I cannot see where you are!"

Calengolf lost his temper. Apparently he was standing within sight range of both Thandor and the exit, as he growled "THAT door," and the glowing outline of a door appeared on the wall about eight paces away from me.

I was not the only one who saw it. Wolf-howls pierced the darkness, and goblins shouted as they ran towards us, although we could not see them. As we crammed ourselves through the doorway in a terrible hurry, something cracked against rock and bounced off to shoot through the middle of our group. Dim red light glimmered ahead of us, brighter and brighter as we ascended. Up the last stair we ran and through the door at the top.

We almost shot straight into the middle of a melee. I recognized the chamber as Calsandar's marketplace, directly next door to the main chamber, and the far half of the room was filled with raging goblins pressing against an unseen battle line of dwarves defending their last refuge. The dwarven unit we were with had apparently crashed into the battle from the rear, but they had been unable to break the goblin lines and were now outnumbered and separated from the main body. We were behind the goblin army and unable to join either group of dwarves without cutting our way through.

I was about to assault the enemy when Karl suddenly turned and dashed past me, going back the way we had come. Aldrid and Edrahil followed him, and I turned just in time to see them clash with the first wave of enemies pouring out of the stairway. Wolf-hide and goblin shields were unable to match the swords and axes of our champions, and the leading enemies were slain or driven back through the door.

"Hold the stairs!" Celegion shouted, and I saw his plan: just a few of us could hopefully keep a much larger force from entering the battle, assuming that they knew no long path to get around us. We all jammed into the top of the stairs. They were only wide enough for two at a time, so Karl and Edrahil held the front line while those of us with bows fired past their shields. For a while we kept up a brisk trade in arrows and spears with our opponents, but they presumably had a strong leader who managed to organize them for another assault.

Their onset was disciplined and methodical this time. They cut at our feet with long polearms, aiming to force us back one step at a time. All we could do against this was shoot arrows in their faces, but their comrades held shields to protect them and we did not cause many casualties. One goblin drove the tip of a battle-pick through a weak spot in Edrahil's leg armor. He fought on at first, but blood flowed from the wound at an alarming rate and Celegion sent in Aldrid to take his place in the line. The enemy took advantage of our disorder to press the assault, and we were driven back off the stairs and into the market. I could not find any arrows in the darkness and confusion, and since my sword was also gone I dispossessed a goblin of his poleaxe and began putting it to good use. My readers may remember that I despise pole-arms, but this also gave me another reason to keep fighting, as I did not wish my epitaph to be "He died with his pole-axe in his hands." (**Ed. This fear was mostly unjustified. Had we lost the battle, his epitaph would have been "A bit chewy, but not bad with sauce."**)

Now we could bring four of us to bear against the two who came first up the stairs, which allowed us to hold our line for a little while. Edrahil was nearly unconscious by now, and Celegion, our only trained healer, was working desperately to stop the bleeding. Thandor guarded them with his bow, since they were terribly exposed on the open floor. As the rest of us fought the goblins at the head of the stairs, the enemy shrieked horribly in the goblin-tongue, presumably appealing to their allies to strike us from the rear, but they could not be heard above the din of battle.

I took advantage of a brief gap in the struggle to turn and"borrow" some of Edhrail's arrows. Without warning, Celegion jerked forward and fell across Edrahil, struck in the head by an arrow. I looked up and saw Men with crossbows pouring out of a larger entrance across the marketplace, shooting as they came. I aimed one of my adopted missiles, but had to delay my shot to twist out of the way of another bolt. Just as I shot, a second bolt slammed into my lower rib cage, blasting a wave of pain through my entire body. I struggled to remain upright and nock another arrow as the world seemed to go dark around me.

Actually, the world was going dark around me. A tall figure in the enemy force had his hand stretched toward the great dwarf-lamp, chanting a foul incantation. The sound of battle quieted as dwarves and goblins alike were forced to adjust their eyes to the darkness. The enemy commander stepped forward, surrounded by a shifting phosphorescence that hinted of dark magic but did not make him a good mark for an arrow.

"Cease this folly!" he shouted in a strange and archaic accent. "Your lives will be spared if you lay down your weapons; for the great Lord of Shadows is not such a fool that He would slay such skilled miners without need, even if they war against Him without just cause. Come, work in His mines, and you shall no longer fear goblin-blades snuffing out your lives in the dark."

His words struck fear into my heart, and I could not see how the dwarves could fail to save themselves at such favorable terms. For myself I had not the slightest temptation to surrender, and I trusted the courage of my comrades, but I felt that Thandor's premonition had come true, that we were to meet our ends alone in the dark.

My moment of despair was interrupted by a curious noise that began at the other end of the room and quickly gained in strength. I realized that I was hearing the sound of many dwarves spitting repeatedly, in chorus, in the most contemptuous manner they could manage. One of them shouted back an answer. "Beardless one, it appears that you are ignorant of the ways of Durin's Folk. While some of our people have shamed us by willingly taking service with your slave-master, it is not said that any dwarf ever was corrupted to his cause by threats or tortures. Nor shall it ever be!"

Good. We were going to settle this dispute the proper way. I searched the gloom for my comrades. Thandor, check. Edrahil and Celegion lying on the floor, check. Aldrid and Karl, check. I could not see Calengolf, but assumed that he was working on some especially perplexing illusion. I quickly checked my arrow-wound. The bolt had jammed itself between two plates of my armor, but had not penetrated deeply so I worked it out and tried to draw my bow. Bad news; pain shot through my side and I feared that if I drew an arrow to its full length, I would hurt myself worse.

The enemy commander grew tired of waiting for defectors. "Very well," he said. "You have dug your own graves."

I stooped down and took Edrahil's sword to replace my own. Without warning, Calengolf was next to me. "Quick conference," he whispered, and those of us still standing gathered around him as the enemy commander continued trying to convince us that we were about to die.

"Where have you been?" Aldrid demanded.

"Oh, you know, climbing up to the ceiling (**Ed. Has Saelon mentioned that I am a good climber?**), calling upon the Star-Kindler to light the dwarf-lamp, experiencing a vision, just the usual things."

Aldrid looked up. "It doesn't look fixed."

"It was a delayed-action invocation, foolish one. Now, when the light kindles, and notice that I say When not If, we need to hit those crossbowmen while they are blinded. And it seems he is done talking. I shall handle this."

Using his Grand Minstrel Voice, Calengolf responded. "Darkness cannot hide the truth forever. Your war is without hope of success, for I have seen that the dark tower is thrown down and your master has perished. Do not-"

"He lies!" shouted the enemy leader. "Feast on that ignorant mocker!"

Karl's rough voice spoke. "Come, dwarves, must an Elf and a Man teach you the proper use of axes?" Indignant cries of "No!" and "_Baruch Khazad!_" answered him.

A surge of power rushed through me, and I called out the ancient battle-cry, "_Lacho calad, drego morn!_" I heard Calengolf and the others shouting it with me as the hall flashed with the fire of the stars, brought down into the darkest of places by the grace of Elbereth. Starlight gleamed on the blade of Calengolf's axe as it spun through the air and struck the sorcerer's face, knocking him down.

No longer feeling any pain, I advanced upon the enemy as I drew back an arrow. At that point my eyes and my mind jointly realized that the sorcerer had not been exhorting his crossbowmen to cannibalism. There were trolls, who were just beginning to recover from the shock of the sudden light. "Feast on this!" I shouted, and loosed an arrow into the gaping mouth of the largest one. I quickly checked over my shoulder to see if the goblins were attacking us from the rear, but their hatred had turned to fear; most were dashing towards the exits or cowering under what shelter they could find. Ahead of me some of the men and trolls still stood against us, but as the surviving dwarves charged into the fight the enemy were struck down by the blades and arrows of the Free Peoples. As the light flamed, the darkness fled.

After the heat of battle had exhausted itself, there were many bodies to bury, but through grace and good fortune only one of them was from our company. Celegion had been slain instantly by the bolt that struck him. Had it not been for his final efforts, we would have lost Edrahil; as it was, we were forced to remain in Calsandar for two weeks to allow Edrahil to recover.

There was no more hostility from the dwarves. I do not think that they had changed their opinion of elves; rather, they seemed to have decided to pretend that we were all Secondborn. They almost seemed sad when it was time for us to go. I was unable to recover my sword (some cursed goblin had pilfered it), but one of the dwarven blacksmiths dug something out of the back corner of his forge. Though it was dark-bladed and ugly, it was also well balanced and seemed very durable. In addition, he had apparently enchanted it not to bite deeply if it struck a friend by accident, although I am not sure why he thought I had need of this particular virtue on my weapon. Still, I doubt Beleg Cuthalion gave much thought to that possibility, and that did not end well for him.

Our return to Rivendell was uneventful, at least by our standards of "eventful". We bid a fond farewell to Karl and Aldrid when we passed through their land, but Calengolf accompanied us back to Rivendell with the excuse of needing to look after us young ones.

When I was writing this memoir I had doubts about whether to include the more "good-natured" or even comedic elements, since our adventure ended in warfare and death. However, I have decided that I shall write it as it happened; to do otherwise would not honor the memory of those glad times before the end. For joy cannot be completely erased by what comes after, and indeed no one remembers good times as well as he who has seen the opposite also. At least that is the way of the Firstborns' memory.

I find that even as I write these last sentences, even though it has been scarce four months since the last struggle under Calsandar, already my spirit itches for action. Other elves may talk of seeking the havens, but I have no such desire at present, not while there are still so many great deeds to be done. If the Valar continue to favor my efforts with success, or at least survival, I may have more memoirs to write.

Farewell, patient readers! May all your adventures be worthy of song and story.


End file.
